


Hall of Mirrors

by Goddessprotectus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bottom Draco, M/M, Royalty, Versailles - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2018-07-13 21:16:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7137515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goddessprotectus/pseuds/Goddessprotectus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius' death leaves Harry with a raft of new responsibilities and throws him into world of political intrigue and subterfuge.  Draco Malfoy proves an unlikely guide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I watched one episode of Versailles and look what happened.

Harry had been looking forward to taking grim pleasure in following Lucius Malfoy’s trial in The Daily Prophet. Not that it would bring Sirius back, or bring Bellatrix Lestrange to justice, but it would at least bring him a measure of satisfaction. But when the first Prophet of August was delivered to Grimauld Place, where Harry had chosen to spend the summer in spite of Professor Dumbledore and Molly Weasley’s protestations, it did not contain news of Lucius Malfoy’s imminent incarceration. Instead, the front page held a story that Harry could not quite make sense of. ‘King Louis XXIII of France Sires Heir’ the headline read, and the photograph next to it showed a man richly dressed in embroidered robes with long brown hair standing beside a blonde woman similarly adorned and holding a baby in a long, white shirt. Harry read the first paragraph, which explained that Louis XXIII, King of France, and his wife, Élizabeth of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, had had their first son, who they had named Jean-Luc. It promised a full and exclusive spread of pictures of the French royal family in the following ten pages. This provided something of a conundrum for Harry, because as far as he knew there had been no French monarchy since Napoleon, and while he could not put an exact date on the Revolution, he thought it had probably happened about two-hundred years ago. He was sure Hermione would know what it meant, and so resolved to ask her when she came over to use the Black library, as she had almost every day since the start of summer. In the meantime he read further down the column. It did not provide any more details as to exactly why there appeared to be a French king, but halfway down the page it did mention the very man Harry had initially hoped to read about. 

“Some in the French court claim that the name Jean-Luc was chosen to honour the King’s stepfather, Lucius Malfoy. This continues the controversy over His Majesty’s close relationship to his stepfather that began when he ascended to the throne in 1993, at the age of nineteen, and requested that the Wizengamot return the Earldom of Wiltshire to his stepfather. Readers will remember that the Wizengamot stripped Lord Malfoy’s title from him in 1979 for adultery, which was at the time still a crime under wizarding law, when he seduced Narcissa Black, the then Dauphine, away from King Louis’s father, the late Charles XV of France, then Dauphin. As adultery has been legal since 1990, His Majesty’s petition was granted by the Wizengamot in spite of opposition from the Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore. His Majesty also revived the title of Duc d’Orleans, which he bestowed on his half brother Draco Malfoy in 1994.”

Harry reread the paragraph several times in an attempt to understand the dynamics it described, but could only really surmise that Lucius Malfoy was the stepfather of a French king. He was prevented from further perusal of the article by Hermione’s arrival. She stepped onto the kitchen hearth and then over to the table where Harry had been having a late breakfast.

“Have you seen this?” Harry brandished the article at her by way of greeting.

“The Prophet? Not yet.” Hermione took it from him.

She smoothed the paper out on the table while she poured tea from the teapot into a cup with her other hand, then she added milk and stirred before she settled in to skim the front page. It took her less than a minute, and then she sat back with a smile.

“They’ve had a boy,” she said, “and look, he’s so cute.”

“What…” Harry tried to marshal his confusion into a question. “Since when was there a King of France?”

She smiled a little mischievously. “Since about the fifth century AD, I think.” But at Harry’s frown she continued, “I take it you mean, why is there still a King of France after the revolution?” Harry nodded. “Well, there isn’t in the muggle world. Since the defeat of Emperor Napoleon III in the Franco-Prussian War, France hasn’t had a muggle monarchy. But the French wizarding community never declared a republic; they’ve retained a monarchy ever since.”

As usual, Hermione’s explanation had raised more questions than it answered. “Go back to the emperor bit.”

Luckily, Hermione did not seem to be in a hurry to raid the Black library, as she sometimes was, and simply chuckled and said, “Ok, history lesson time.” She reached into her bag and produced parchment and a biro.

“Don’t let Mrs Black see that.” Harry advised. The portrait shrieked at anything she deemed muggle. Just the day before she had glimpsed Harry’s trainers in the hall when Kreacher had been dusting her frame and thrown the most almighty tantrum.

“Do you think she’d know what it is?” Hermione asked absently. “Ok, so, as you know, Louis XVI was deposed in the Revolution of 1792.” She wrote L16 1792 at the top of the paper. “Then his son, Louis XVII was sort of the king for a couple of years, but it was during the Revolution and he was only ten when he died, so he wasn’t very important.” She drew a line down from L16, labels it ‘son’ and wrote L17 at the other end of the line. “Then there was the revolutionary governments and Napoleon Bonaparte, who declared himself Emperor. Then after the Battle of Waterloo in 1815 Napoleon abdicated and Louis XVI’s brother Louis XVIII was King until 1824.” She drew another line form L16, looping it below L17 and labelling it ‘brother’. She wrote L18 1824 at the other end. “Then he died and his brother Charles X took the throne but he wasn’t very popular so he abdicated in 1830,” a “brother” line from L18 and C10 1830, “and a distant cousin, Louise Phillippe I, took the throne. He wasn’t popular either so he abdicated in 1848 and Napoleon Bonaparte’s great-nephew was elected President, and then declared himself emperor.” She draws a line for ‘cousin’ from C10 and labels it LP1 1848.

“How do you know this stuff?”

“You know the answer to that.”

That was true, Harry was sure she’d read it in a book. “Ok, but how do you remember this stuff?”

Hermione swept her hair back over her shoulder. “I find it interesting.”

“But you find everything interesting, and I don’t know how you keep it all in your brain. Anyway, who did the wizards keep as their king? And why would they want a king if the muggles didn’t?”

“Well,” Hermione said emphatically, and Harry wondered if he was going to regret asking. “Louis XVII had a sister, called Marie Thérèse, and Charles X had a son, Louis Antoine, and they got married.” She drew them onto the tree. “Louis Antoine’s mother was a witch, and he was a wizard. So when Marie Thérèse and Louis Antoine had a son-”

“Wait, weren’t they cousins?” Harry studied the family tree before him.

“Yes, well, that wasn’t so unusual at the time. Cousins marrying, I mean. Anyway, they had a child when they were in exile, after Charles X abdicated, in Edinburgh actually, but they kept it a secret and raised him in the wizarding communities of the cities they lived in. It was only in 1848, when Napoleon III abdicated, that the French wizarding community invited their son, Ferdinand, to be king. His line has been on the throne ever since.” She added Ferdinand to the tree.

“But why would the wizards want a king?” Harry had had enough trouble with politicians, he couldn’t imagine wanting a monarch.

“The magical community are notoriously conservative. Even in England we don’t have anything approaching a democracy. The Wizengamot choose the Minister of Magic from among their own ranks, there’s no public vote. In France they’re even more traditionalist, I think the King rules more or less as an absolute monarch.” At Harry’s confused express she elaborated, “That means the king decides everything.”

Harry looked at the family tree Hermione had drawn for a few more moments before allowing himself to move onto the next question. “So, why is Malfoy’s name all over the newspaper article?”

“Well, that’s a completely different story. Very scandalous.” She looked quite delighted by it. “The current king, that’s Louis XXIII, his father was Charles XV, and his mother is Narcissa Malfoy.”

“What?” Harry was nonplussed.

“I know,” Hermione obviously took Harry’s question to be an exclamation of shock. “Before Narcissa married Lucius, she was married to Charles XV. He wasn’t the king yet, he was the Dauphin, the French heir to the throne. They had a son, Louis, but then Lucius Malfoy came to the French court, and stole Narcissa away from her husband. The Dauphin had to go to the Pope and request a divorce, because they’re Catholic, of course. Then Narcissa married Lucius and they had Draco, but the French demanded that his title be stripped, and the Wizengamot agreed so that there wouldn’t be an international incident. Even more scandalously she took Louis, the Fils de France, that’s the Dauphin’s son, to live with her at Malfoy manor. Charles XV remarried, and if he’d had any more children he might have tried to have Louis declared illegitimate, but he didn’t, so Louis took the throne when his father died.”

“So Draco Malfoy is the King of France’s half-brother?” It didn’t sound very credible to Harry.

“That’s right. He’s not in line for the throne, though. He doesn’t have any royal blood.”

“But why haven’t we heard all about it? I mean, this is Malfoy we’re talking about. Forget ‘my father will hear about this’, I think ‘my brother, the King of France, will hear about this’ would be more impressive.” Harry could hardly imagine Malfoy passing up a chance like that.

Hermione just shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know what kind of relationship he has with his brother. I suppose it would be a little far-fetched even for him to claim that the King of France is going to intervene in school-boy disputes, especially if he knows he won’t.”

“So Lucius Malfoy isn’t going to prison?” Harry clarified.

“I don’t think the Wizengamot is going to sentence the King of Frances’ beloved step-father.” Hermione agreed. She put the family tree on one side and helped herself to toast and jam. “It’s probably a good thing you're learning about all of this.” She observed as she spread the butter. “You’ll need to know all about it if you take up Sirius’ title.”

Harry frowned. It had been hanging over him ever since Sirius’ will had named him heir to not only all of the Black possessions, but also the Marquessate of Dorchester, the Black’s ancestral title. “I’m still not sure if I’m going to.” 

“What, you’re going to ignore it and hope it goes away?”

“I might do.” Harry knew he sounded petulant, but he felt he’d earned a bit of petulance. “Anyway, these people,” he put a finger on the newspaper, “are French. What have they got to do with me?”

“From what I’ve read in the Prophet, it seems like most of the English nobility spend their time at the French court. I suppose there isn’t much of a courtly scene in England anymore.” She grimaced slightly to show her distaste at the idea of a ‘courtly scene’. “And it’s the only fully magical royal court in Europe, so I suppose they feel more comfortable there.”

“Even more of a reason not to claim it.”

“It’s really fascinating that you’re eligible to claim it at all. Muggle peerages can usually only be inherited by blood relatives. I don’t know why being a godchild is so important to wizards, it could have some magical significance, or it might just be a social convention, or one of those odd legal loopholes. It’s one of the things I'm researching at the moment, actually.”

Fascinating was not the word Harry would have chosen. Mind-numbingly dull would have been more appropriate. Hermione gathered her parchment and pen back into her bag and left for the library with half a piece of toast in her mouth. 

Harry pulled the paper back in front of him and examined the ten-page spread of photos that followed the article. Most were of the baby and his parents in rich, gilded surroundings. ‘The Dauphin and his parents in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles’, one caption read, while another announced ‘Queen Élizabeth and her son in the Grand Couvert’. The photos were all obviously staged for the press, and while they moved, it was only the King shifting the baby in his arms, or the Queens eyes flicking down to smile at her son. The baby was uniformly asleep in all of the photos. On the sixth page the photos changed to family groupings. Harry saw the familiar faces of Lucius and Draco Malfoy looking out at him. They were standing next to the King, and on the other side were the Queen and her family. ‘The King and Queen present their son to the Earl of Wiltshire, his son, the Duc d’Orleans and the Queen’s parents, the Prince and Princess of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. The Countess of Wiltshire was indisposed, and is said to have met her grandson in her own chambers.’ the newspaper informed Harry. Lucius Malfoy looked satisfied as he stared out from the photograph. He looked just as Harry remembered, tall and imposing with an angular face and strong jaw, his hair swept back into a ponytail. Draco Malfoy was also looking into the camera, but his face was expressionless and his eyes held nothing to show how he felt at meeting his nephew. He was tall for his age, Harry knew he had been one of the tallest in their year before the summer, but he looked slight next to his father and half-brother. The light blue robes he wore did nothing to hide the narrowness of his shoulders, and his face looked almost shockingly pale and drawn surrounded by the golden opulence of the palace.

 

Harry had bitten the bullet and claimed Sirius’ title. All it had taken was for him to sign a letter to the Crown Office prepared by Sirius’ lawyers – his lawyers now, he supposed – and provide a copy of Sirius’ will. He had done this only after checking with Hermione that no one was actually going to call him the Marquess of Dorchester, or ‘My Lord’, or whatever Marquesses were called.

“Don’t be silly, Harry.” Hermione had admonished. “No one called Sirius that, did they? They knew he would hate it. And nobody calls Malfoy ‘Your Grace’ at school, it’s not the done thing.”

Harry had also taken the time to look at a map of England and find out where exactly Dorchester was. In Dorset, unsurprisingly, but the Black family seemed to have lost whatever historic connection they had to the city. He was now Harry Potter, fourteenth Marquess of Dorchester. This gave him a whole slew of responsibilities, such as voting for the implementation of new wizarding laws put forward by the Wizengamot, and a seat on the Board of Governors at Hogwarts. Luckily for Harry, he could not take any of these positions until he had come of age. Given the return of Voldemort, and the prophecy Dumbledore had revealed to him the previous term, Harry wasn’t entirely sure he would live to see his seventeenth birthday. If he did get the chance, Harry would have liked to honour Sirius with his political decisions, but as Sirius had never had the opportunity to exercise the rights given to him by his position, Harry did not know what he would have wanted. Although his parents had not legally disowned him, and so Sirius had inherited on his father’s death, this had not occurred until he was already in Azkaban, and so while his title had not been stripped from him – there was no surviving family to demand it and no foreign king gunning for him – he had hardly been welcome in the Ministry. Harry didn’t know what political stance Sirius would have taken had he had the chance. He didn’t know very much about his godfather at all. He know Sirius would have opposed anything discriminatory towards muggleborns, but he had never discussed his views on the economy or education or any of the other things Harry would soon be asked to make decisions about.

Harry’s youth and inability to take part in politics had not prevented Scrimgeour, the new Minister for Magic, from calling at Harry’s new home and attempting a crude political seduction. Scrimgeour was sure Harry would see the wisdom in the measures that he wished to impose to combat Voldemort’s return. He elaborated only briefly on what these measures might be, and made it clear that he expected Harry’s very public support of any and all actions he took. Harry had swiftly disillusioned him. He might have limited political interest, but he wasn’t going to be anyone’s pawn.

He’d eaten dinner at The Burrow the previous evening after a day spent shopping in Diagon Alley for new school supplies, and he’d arranged to meet the Weasleys on Platform 93/4 today so that he could say goodbye to Arthur and Molly and meet up with Ron and Ginny for the trip to Hogwarts. Harry had woken that morning to find that Kreacher had neatly packed his trunk and had packed him sandwiches for lunch, as well as laying out the usual breakfast spread. It was yet another nice change from Harry’s usual summer routine. There had been none of the run-ins with his aunt and uncle that marked a normal summer for Harry, because Harry had only visited Privet Drive to collect his scant possessions and move them to Grimauld Place. Although Dumbledore had tried to insist that Harry needed the blood protection offered by his Aunt, Harry had pointed out that Grimauld Place had a Fideleus charm on it, and a number of other protective wards, not to mention Mrs Black’s portrait screaming at all who entered. Molly had been worried about Harry being there alone, with only a house elf for company, but Harry had reassured her that it would be far pleasant than his usual summer company. In the end both adults had relented, and Harry had spent an enjoyable summer tidying up the ancient house, with Ron, Hermione and Remus dropping in on him frequently enough that he wasn’t lonely.

All in all, Harry felt refreshed and ready to start the year as he stepped on to Platform 9 and 3/4, although Sirius’ death was still hanging over him. He knew that it was at least in part his fault, and had spent a great deal of the summer berating himself for not learning occlumency more effectively and for falling for Voldemort’s trick. His grief was not lessoned by the knowledge that Sirius’ death would undoubtedly not be the last in the war against Voldemort, and over the summer Harry’s resolve to take a leading role in the fight had hardened. Before he died, Sirius had encouraged Harry in to be involved in the Order of the Phoenix and not leave the decisions to the adults. Now Harry had heard the prophecy, he knew it was even more important to be party to those decisions. If fighting Voldemort was going to be his destiny, he needed all the information he could about what the Dark Lord was doing. To that end, Harry had granted Dumbledore’s request that the Order meetings continue to be in Grimauld Place on the condition that Harry be allowed to attend them. Not that he had learned very much. Voldemort was playing his hand close to his chest after his failure at the Ministry. It was unclear where he had set up a base; Malfoy manor had been shut up since Lucius’ release by the ministry in late July, and the whole family had spent the summer in France. It was also unclear how many followers Voldemort had amassed, with the Malfoy’s as such prominent defections and many other dark families fleeing the country in order to stay neutral. On the other hand, Voldemort appealed now, much as he had when he first rose to power, to the disaffected youth of the wizarding community, and so might have picked up new followers to replace those who no longer served him.

“There is a growing understanding,” Snape had explained at the most recent meeting, “that the Dark Lord is insane. Many pureblood families, in spite of their political beliefs, no longer want to place themselves in such a perilous position. They have seen what the Dark Lord is willing to do to members of his own circle, and while the may have no qualms about muggles and muggleborn being mistreated, they have no desire to see their children suffer the same fate.”

It made sense, or at least it did to Hermione, who observed to Harry over dinner that evening, “The pureblood community hasn’t survived in secrecy for hundreds years by being martyrs for their cause. Self-interest is their main priority now as much as it was during the witch hunts in the seventeenth century. They’re not going to risk their own necks by following a madman, even if they do agree with his rhetoric.”

Hermione was now situated to the left of the entrance to Platform 9 and ¾ with the Weasleys. Harry joined them and was quickly engulfed by a cacophony of greetings. Between him, Ron and Hermione, they got their three trunks on board and into an empty compartment. Then they went back onto the platform to say goodbye to Mr and Mrs Weasley. Molly squeezed Harry as firmly as ever and cautioned them all to be careful. Arthur told them to enjoy their sixth year, because their seventh year would be all about their NEWTS.

Hermione and Ron made their way to the prefect’s carriage, but Neville and Luna joined Harry in his carriage. Harry enjoyed seeing them again. They were both aware of the prophecy and had been part of what had happened in the Ministry before the summer. Harry didn’t have to watch his words around them the way he did with other students, and they didn’t stare or trying to worm information out of him. Instead, Neville coaxed him to talk about his plans for Sirius’ estate, which was something in which neither Ron nor Hermione were particularly interested. Luna interjected with the occasional surreal observation about obscure magical creatures, but this was also soothing for Harry, as it alleviated the seriousness that had surrounded him since Sirius’ death. None of them mentioned Voldemort outright, though his shadowed hovered over much of their conversation. They chatted comfortably until they were interrupted by a knock on the compartment door.

Harry reached over and slid it open. On the other side stood a nervous looking boy no older than third year. He looked at Harry and held a slip of parchment out to him. “I have a note for you from Professor Slughorn, and one for you.” He held a second slip out to Neville.

Harry and Neville took them and the boy scurried off before they could thank him. “Who’s Professor Slughorn?” Harry wondered aloud.

“He taught my father when he was at Hogwarts.” Luna interjected unexpectedly. “Maybe the Headmaster has asked him to come back.”

“What did he teach? Defence?” It was the only position Harry knew to be empty.

“No, potions.” Luna replied. “Maybe Professor Snape is finally going to teach defence.”

“What’s he like?” Neville sounded a little nervous.

“I don’t know,” Luna’s voice had become dreamy again, “all my father said about him was that he liked to collect well-connected or promising students. I don’t think my father knew him very well.”

Harry chose not to comment. Instead he unfolded the parchment and read the note. 

 

Dear Mr Potter,  
I would be delighted if you joined me for lunch in my compartment.  
Sincerely,  
Professor Slughorn

 

Harry showed it to Neville and Luna, and Neville did the same with his nearly identical note.

“Why would he want us to have lunch with him?” Neville wondered.

“Maybe he wants to collect you.” Luna suggested.

Harry’s heart sank.

He and Neville left promptly. Harry felt bad about leaving Luna alone, but she merely smiled and produced a copy of the Quibbler. “I’m sure Ron and Hermione will pop in when they can. I don’t mind being alone.” She reassured them.

Harry and Neville made their way with some trepidation down the train until they found Slughorn’s compartment. Harry hadn’t been sure what to expect when he entered the carriage, but what he was met with was an elderly, fat man in one corner of the compartment. In another sat two boys Harry recognised as seventh years. Next to them were two more familiar faces, Blaise Zabini and Draco Malfoy. Harry knew Zabini only as a Slytherin in his year. The boy had olive skin and strong features, and most of the girls in Gryffindor seemed to spend a significant amount of their time discussing him. Next to him Malfoy looked disocncertingly pale, and there were dark crescents beneath his eyes.

“Come in, come in.” Slughorn gestured them in good-naturedly. “Sit yourselves down.” Harry and Neville sat on the same side as Slughorn, but left a seat free between Neville and the rotund professor. Harry found himself opposite Malfoy, but the boy did not meet Harry’s gaze. “Do you all know each other?” Slughorn enquired solicitously. “You four are in the same year,” he indicated Harry, Neville, Zabini and Malfoy, “so I expect you do already.”

“We’re acquainted.” Zabini drawled with an amused expression. He made eye contact with Harry and held it.

Slughorn seemed unaffected by Zabini’s tone. “And this is Cormac McLaggen,” he gestured to the larger of the two seventh years, “and Marcus Belby.”

As Harry had feared, Slughorn was quick to probe McLaggen and Belby for information about their prosperous relatives. McLaggen passed the test, obviously having a close relationship to his well-connected uncle, but Belby was less fortunate as his father and the uncle in question were not close. Then it was Zabini’s turn.

“I was sorry to miss your mother’s wedding this summer, Blaise.” Harry remembered hearing that Zabini’s mother was something of a black widow.

Zabini smiled broadly, showing his teeth. “So was I.” Slughorn looked disconcerted this time. Harry saw Malfoy plant an elbow surreptitiously in Zabini’s side. Zabini continued, “But when I met her new husband earlier this year, he was quite charming. Made his money on dragon hide stock, I believe.”

“I’m sure you’re getting on well with him, he is your stepfather now, after all.” Slughorn’s joviality sounded rather forced.

Zabini snorted. “I wouldn’t let him hear you say it, he’s only twenty-four, you see.”

“I see.”

“But in poor health, I understand.” Zabini showed his teeth again.

Slughorn moved on quickly. “I was so glad to hear the news of your new nephew, Draco.”

Harry was surprised that Malfoy had managed to wait his turn and not interrupted earlier. Now he lifted his eyes briefly in Slughorn’s direction before dropping them again. “We are all grateful that God has granted His Majesty a healthy child.” He replied, and his hand went to his throat, where Harry saw a small, silver crucifix hanging.

“Indeed.” Replied Slughorn. “Are you feeling alright, my dear boy? You look exhausted.”

Malfoy offered a thin smile in response, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m quite alright, thank you, Professor.”

“Just tired from all of the dancing and feasting at Versailles, I’m sure.” Zabini interjected, clapping a hand onto Malfoy’s shoulder. For some reason, the familiarity irritated Harry.

“I’m sure.” Malfoy echoed. Then he stood. “If you’ll excuse me, Professor, I have prefect duties I must attend to.”

“Quite alright, my boy.” Slughorn assured. “I understand. Duty before pleasure.”

Malfoy offered the man another upward twitch of his lips, and then turned to Harry. “A word, Potter. Outside.”

Harry was so surprised he didn’t object. He merely stood and followed Malfoy out of the compartment. Malfoy slid the door shut behind them and motioned Harry to follow him out of view of the glass door.

“I have a letter for you.” For the second time that day, Harry found a piece of parchment being held out to him.

“A letter.” Harry was too confused to take it from him.

“From His Majesty, King Louis the twenty-third.” Malfoy clarified.

Feeling completely turned about, Harry took the letter. After all, it had only been the previous term that Malfoy had been threatening Harry with dire consequences for getting his father arrested. Now he was acting as messenger without a singe insult thrown at Harry.

“What does it say?”

“How on earth would I know, Potter?” Malfoy snapped. “Do you think I go around reading sealed letters from the King?”

Harry didn’t know what to think. At least that sounded a little more like Malfoy. Harry broke the wax seal and unfolded the parchment to reveal a handwritten letter.

 

Dear Lord Potter,

We would be pleased if you would join us for Yule at our palace of Versailles. We look forward with pleasure to meeting you and we are confident you will find your stay most comfortable. You may make all necessary arrangements through our brother, with whom we have entrusted this letter.

Louis R


	2. Chapter 2

“Errr…” Malfoy had been turning to leave, but now he looked back at Harry. 

“Do you need some sort of help, Potter?” Malfoy sounded impatient.

“He, erm,” Harry wasn’t sure how he should refer to the French king, “He wants me to come to Versailles for Christmas.”

Malfoy pursed his lips. “I suspected that might be the case. Shall I communicate your grateful acceptance to His Majesty?”

Harry wasn’t sure that was what he wanted at all. “I usually spend Christmas at Hogwarts, or with the Weasleys.”

“My sympathies.”

“I enjoy it.”

Malfoy treated Harry to a look of utmost disdain. “An invitation from the King is a great honour.”

“Why does he even want me there? So your father can finish what Voldemort started.”

Malfoy flinched a little at Voldemort’s name, but then his face contorted in anger. “How dare you,” he hissed, “imply that the King would involve himself with the machinations of a common criminal masquerading as a lord.”

“Do you mean Voldemort or your father?”

Malfoy stepped away sharply and his face went blank. Harry thought that he’d definitely won this round. “Do let me know when you’ve made your decision, Potter.” Then he was striding away down the corridor, sending a group of second years scurrying out of his way.

Victory was not a sweet as Harry had hoped. Mostly because he still had questions that only Malfoy could answer. He would talk to Hermione, she might be able to help him work out exactly what was going on.

 

Harry had felt eyes on him throughout the Welcome Feast. The other students were understandably curious about the reports they had heard over the summer concerning the Department of Mysteries and a prophecy. The Prophet had begun referring to Harry as The Chosen One, which Harry viewed as an improvement from the previous year’s allegations of insanity, but it was still not particularly pleasant. After all, Harry was only ‘chosen’ in the sense that Voldemort had chosen to believe the prophecy referred to him rather than Neville or any other child. Harry fit two fairly generic criteria, born in July to parents who had defied Voldemort three times, but the aspects that singled Harry out particularly were dictated by Voldemort, not be anything specific to Harry. Voldemort had marked Harry, as the prophecy promised, and Voldemort had some intrinsic failing that Harry would hopefully be able to exploit when they finally fought. That was the only information the prophecy provided. Harry thought that if the rest of the student population knew the limited extent of the prophecy, they would be significantly less interested. So, probably, would Voldemort.

Harry had waited until after the Feast and the completion of Ron and Hermione’s duties in shepherding the first years back to the Common Room to tell them about the letter. When they were settled in front of the fire, Hermione with a book and Harry and Ron with a deck of cards, he showed them. Ron looked just as thunderstruck as Harry felt.

“Bloody hell, Harry. What does this French bloke want with you?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to know. I have more than enough to worry about already.”

“Don’t be silly,” Hermione admonished. “You’ve just claimed an important title, and you’re already famous in the wizarding world on your own merits. It would be surprising if the King didn’t want to meet you.”

“But he’s the French king.” Harry pointed out.

“Yes, but the French and English wizarding communities are very close. British magical aristocracy aren’t welcome in the British court. There are some great books I can show you about it in the library, if you’re interested.”

“I’m okay, thanks, Hermione.” The last thing Harry wanted was an impenetrable text book on wizarding history.

“Or,” Hermione smirked mischievously, “you could ask Malfoy.”

“I’d rather disembowel myself.” Harry assured her as Ron simultaneously said, “Urgh, Hermione, don’t be disgusting.”

Hermione shook her head. “You two are so immature.”

“Come on, this is Malfoy we’re talking about.” Ron reminded her. “I don’t think he’s going to tell Harry anything that would help him.”

“What did he say to you when he gave you the letter?” Hermione asked Harry.

“Just that I should be honoured at being invited, and that I should tell him my answer.”

“See, it sounds like the two of you had a perfectly civil conversation.” Harry felt Hermione’s pointed gaze on him.

Harry didn’t have a good poker face. “Err…”

“Harry,” Hermione remonstrated. “Were you rude to him?”

‘Oh come on, Hermione, its Malfoy. We’ve never been civil.”

“But you’ve got to make an effort now, Harry. The King could be an important ally, and Malfoy’s your only point of contact.”

“An ally?” Harry was disbelieving. “He’s Lucius Malfoy’s stepson. I don’t know why he would be my ally. I assume he wants me dead, just like Voldemort.”

“You didn’t say that to Malfoy, did you?”

“I might have mentioned it, yeah.”

“Harry you didn’t.” Hermione sounded scandalised.

“Well why shouldn’t I have?” Harry was getting irritated. “Lucius Malfoy has been trying to do me harm for six years. He gave Ginny a cursed diary. He’s partly responsible for Sirius dying. And Malfoy’s been treating me like shit since the day I met him. Or have you forgotten the Inquisitorial Squad? I’m not going to play nice with him all of a sudden now that his father’s got cold feet and his half-brother wants to have me over at Christmas.”

“But don’t you see, the French court has always supported the Ministry in fighting Voldemort, and King Louis has made it very clear that he’s going to continue that. He even made a statement last summer that any reports of Voldemort’s return should be investigated fully. That’s as much support as he could have given you. It’s more than the Ministry gave you, they waited until they had proof dumped on their doorstep before they admitted there might be anything wrong. You have to make the most of it, even if it means making nice with Malfoy.”

Harry had to admit that he hadn’t known that. “Why does nobody tell me this stuff?”

“I think maybe they expect you to keep up with what’s happening in the world yourself.”

Harry thought that was a little bit harsh. Really, Hermione was the only person he knew that actually read the paper for news, rather than gossip or sports. Harry had in the past tried to keep up with what Voldemort was doing through the Prophet, but had found himself put off by all of the lies about him. Hermione could hardly blame him for that. “So, what? You think I should go to France alone and spend Christmas with strangers and people who hate me?”

Hermione opened her book to a book-marked page. “I think you should consider it.”

Harry did consider it. He considered it all evening and all of the next morning, through breakfast and Potions with Slughorn and Charms with Flitwick. He was still considering it at lunch, when Ginny sat next to him and followed his gaze over to the Slytherin table and Malfoy.

“He looks awful.” She said cheerfully.

“What? Who?” Asked Harry distractedly.

“The object of your devotion.” Harry turned to stare at her. “Malfoy.” She clarified.

“How is Malfoy the object of my devotion?”

“You stared at him all through breakfast, and now you look set to stare at him all through lunch. Did you guys fight on the train? Do you think he’s up to something?”

Harry sighed. “No. Well, maybe. He gave me a letter from his half-brother. You know, his brother’s the King of France.”

Ginny snorted. “Oh right, just a letter from the King of France. No big deal.”

“Well, it’s not like I get a choice in who sends me letters. He wants me to go to France for Christmas.”

“To the palace?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

She sucked her teeth. “Is it some sort of political gathering?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I suppose everything that happens is in the palace is political, right?”

“And is that how you want to spend you Christmas? Chatting up politicians and royalty who just want to use your fame for their own ends?” Harry had told her about Scrimgeour’s visit.

“No. But I don’t think the King really needs my fame, I'm sure he has enough of his own. And Hermione thinks it might be my only chance to get some support.” Harry had to admit that Hermione’s argument had made sense to him, and that the thought of finally having someone in power on his side, other than Dumbledore, of course, appealed to him.

Ginny was eyeing him shrewdly. “You’re going to go, aren’t you?”

Harry looked over at Malfoy again; he was poking at a bit of pasta with his fork. “Yeah, I think I have to.”

Ginny looked across at Malfoy too. “You better go and talk to him then.”

Harry caught Malfoy outside the Great Hall. He shouted after him and Malfoy turned, as did Crabbe and Goyle.

“Can I help you, Potter?” Malfoy asked coolly.

“I wanted to talk to you.” Malfoy motioned that he go ahead. “In private.” Ginny was right, Malfoy looked terrible. There were deep bags under his eyes and his hair was hanging limp, not combed back as it usually was.

Malfoy rolled his eyes but nodded and stepped across the hall. He opened the door to a classroom, empty because it was lunchtime, and Harry followed him inside. He turned to close the door, but Goyle caught hold of it.

“Keep it open.” Goyle ordered. Harry began to protest, but Golye interrupted. “You can have your privacy, Potter, but the door stays open.”

Harry looked to Malfoy to intervene, but the other boy met his stare impassively. “What do you want?”

Harry hesitated, still unwilling to discuss things in the hearing of Malfoy’s bodyguards. But it needed to be done, and Harry had already made up his mind. “You said to tell you my decision.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve decided I’ll come.”

Malfoy showed no reaction. “I’ll relay your decision to His Majesty.”

“Right.”

“If that’s all.” Malfoy made for the door.

“No.” Malfoy paused. “I need to ask you something.”

Malfoy’s lips thinned. “Yes.”

“I’ve never been to a palace before.” Harry admitted.

“And?” Malfoy was staring at Harry with his cold, grey eyes. He wasn’t giving Harry an inch.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“And?”

“Well, I’m sure there’s loads of protocol and stuff that I should know about.”

“I’m not hearing a question, Potter.”

“Unlike you, Malfoy, I wasn’t born into this stuff.”

“And?”

“And,” Harry took a deep breath, “I need your help.”

Malfoy sneered. “In what capacity?”

Harry had to smother a frustrated snarl. “To show me how to do all this stuff.”

“Why shouldn’t I just let you make a fool of yourself?”

Harry didn’t know why Malfoy had to be such wanker about it. “Because I assume your brother,” Harry noted with some interest that Malfoy’s jaw clenched at that, “wants me there so he can assess the likelihood of me defeating Voldemort. And if I make a fool of myself, then we might not get along. If we don’t get along, then that lessens the likelihood that Voldemort will be defeated. If Voldemort wins here, how long do you think it’ll be before he’s in France showing your parents just how angry he is that they pissed off to Versailles rather than supporting him here?” It was a risky move, Harry thought. The King had not mentioned Voldemort, Harry only had Hermione’s and his own suppositions about what the King wanted. 

It worked, though. Malfoy showed no emotion, but after a moment of thought he nodded shortly. “Fine. Meet me at seven in Professor Snape’s office.”

“I have Quidditch this evening.”

Malfoy exhaled loudly. “I couldn’t care less, Potter.” Then he left, Crabbe and Goyle joining him as he disappeared down the corridor. Harry supposed he could reschedule Quidditch practice. He was the captain, after all.

 

Harry was early. He had told himself it was because after rescheduling Quidditch trials to the next evening he had nothing better to do, but in reality he knew it was because he didn’t want to piss Malfoy off by being late. He hung around in the corridor outside Snape’s office for five minutes until Malfoy showed up at seven on the dot. As ever, he was flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. He opened the door to the office and gestured Harry in ahead of him.

“You don’t have to stay,” he told his bodyguards, “there’s no sense in you wasting your evening too. Professor Snape is supervising detention in the classroom next door.”

“And he’ll walk with you back to the common room?” Crabbe asked.

Malfoy huffed. “If he doesn’t, I’ll send for you. Rawlins is in detention tonight, I’ll send him with a message.”

Crabbe looked unsatisfied, but Goyle touched his elbow and they both left.

“What was that about?” Harry asked Malfoy when he joined him in Snape’s office.

“Nothing.” Malfoy muttered.

“It was obviously something.” Harry insisted doggedly.

“Things are tense at the moment, but there’s nothing to be worried about. They’re over reacting.”

“Obviously things are tense, Voldemort’s running around killing people. I’d say that’s something to be worried about.”

Malfoy made a non-committed noise and Harry felt he hadn’t quite got to the heart of it. Malfoy walked over to the fireplace and Harry looked at the room he hadn’t been in since his Occulmency lessons had ended so abruptly the previous year. The room hadn’t changed, the walls were full of jars of ingredients and the desk stood imposingly in the centre, now bereft of the Penseive. Malfoy directed his wand at the fireplace, and it sparked into life.

“Tea, Potter?” Malfoy had moved to the sideboard next to the fireplace.

“Er, yeah, sure.” Harry was a little suspicious of consuming anything Malfoy have him.

Malfoy tapped an earthenware jug with his wand. Immediately it began to steam. He then set about spooning tealeaves from a wooden box into a pot, and poured in the boiling water from the jug to the pot. Then he opened one of the doors of the sideboard and took out two teacups and saucers. He levitated the chairs on either side of Snape’s desk and placed them before the fire. A table from the other side of the fireplace was placed between the chairs, and Malfoy set the teapot and cups on it.

“You seem to know your way around.” Harry wasn’t sure he could have found the tea in McGonagall’s office, let alone felt confident enough to rearrange the furniture. For that matter, Harry didn’t think McGonagall would have been too pleased if he’d scheduled a meeting with another student in her office.

“Yes,” Malfoy agreed, but did not elaborate. He sat himself down in one of the chairs, Snape’s, Harry thought, and gestured to the other. “Have a seat.”

Harry sat. “Doesn’t Snape mind us using his office?”

Malfoy poured the tea. It was amber and smelt of citrus and flowers. “No.”

Malfoy’s terse answers were beginning to irritate Harry. “You always were his favourite.” He sneered.

To Harry’s surprise, Malfoy laughed. “You’re one to talk about favouritism. He’s my godfather, Potter, of course I’m his favourite.”

Well, that explained it. Harry felt anger curl in his gut. How was it fair that Malfoy got to sit drinking tea in his godfather’s office while Harry had barely had time to know Sirius? Harry clenched his fists in his lap. When he looked up, Malfoy was regarding him with his most expressionless gaze.

“Shall we get on with it? Malfoy asked.

“Right.”

Malfoy lifted his teacup and cradled it in his hands; it was still too hot to drink. “We will travel to the palace with a portkey, apparition is forbidden in the grounds. I prefer to arrive at the stables entrance, but if you prefer a more ceremonial entrance, that can be arranged.” Harry muttered a negative. “When we arrive, the King may desire us to attend him immediately, or he may wish to wait until dinner. If he wishes for us to see him immediately, we will be directed to wherever he is. Most likely that will be one of the Salons or Le Rocher, a folly in the Queen’s estate that is lately his favourite. When you enter the King’s presence, you will bow. You will not address the King directly unless he speaks to you. You will not leave the King’s presence until he gives you leave. If the King wishes to wait until dinner to meet you, you will be escorted to you rooms upon your arrival. You will be escorted to dinner, most likely in the Rocaille Grove. As you are a guest, and, I suppose, a Marquis, you will likely be invited to sit at the table with His Majesty. You will sit when he sits, you will stand when he stands, you will eat when he eats. Then there will be dancing. It will be freezing, dress warmly. If you aren’t invited to eat at the table, you will stand with the rest of the court and watch the King take dinner. You will need fine robes, the King likes his courtiers to be decorative.” Malfoy sipped his tea. Harry picked up his own cup. It smelt offputtingly floral, but he took a sip anyway, and found that it wasn’t as highly flavoured as expected. In fact it was rather light and refreshing.

“What is this?” He asked on impulse.

Malfoy looked surprised. “French Earl Grey. Severus keeps some for me. He won’t touch it himself.” 

Harry found himself disconcerted by this glimpse into Malfoy and Snape’s relationship. “That doesn’t sound like Snape.”

Malfoy be frowned. “You may not like Professor Snape, but be careful about what you say about him at court. He is also the King’s godfather.”

“Really?” Harry was shocked.

“Yes, he’s my mother’s oldest friend, they were in school together.” Harry couldn’t imagine the dour professor hob-knobbing it with courtiers. “Anyway, do you understand what I’ve told you so far?”

Harry furrowed his brow in thought. “Go back to the bit about bowing.” Malfoy tipped his head back and closed his eyes.

Malfoy instructed him in the etiquette of the French court until just after nine, when they were interrupted by the door that led into Snape’s classroom opening. Snape strode through and Malfoy broke off his sentence concerning the correct way to address the Queen and smiled at his godfather.

“Finished torturing today’s delinquents?” He asked cheerfully.

“Indeed.” Snape murmured. He made his way to Malfoy’s chair.

“Tea?” Malfoy offered. He had replenished the pot only ten minutes earlier.

“What are you drinking?” Snape leaned in to smell Malfoy’s cup, and then recoiled. “Not that swill.” He went over to the sideboard and pulled a decanter and two chasers from a cupboard. He poured a decent measure of amber liquid into each. His approach to dealing with having Harry in his office seemed to be to ignore him. He took a shallow, rectangular silver case from the top draw of the cabinet. Opening it revealed a row of white cigarettes with a double silver band between the filter and the tobacco and curling silver script beneath it. He picked up the two glasses in one hand by pinching the sides together. He deposited them on the table in front of the fire and held out the open case to Malfoy.

Malfoy took one. “Thank you. Vincent wants to know if you’ll walk me back to the common room this evening.”

Snape took a cigarette for himself and returned the case to the sideboard. “If he insists.”

“It’s a lot of nonsense.” Malfoy complained. Then he turned to Harry. “We can continue this next week. Curfew is in twenty minutes.” Harry took that as his cue to leave. As he closed the door behind him, he saw Snape take Harry’s vacated seat and Malfoy light his cigarette with a flick of his wand.

Once back in the common room, Harry related the evening’s events to Ron and Hermione. “But Malfoy’s not allowed to drink, he’s underage.” Hermione objected.

“Well, Snape’s his godfather, so I suppose the rules don’t apply to him.” Ron grumbled.

“The whole thing was weird.” Harry announced. “Malfoy got all distant and formal when he was talking about the palace. Like he was reciting information about people he’d never met. The King’s his brother, you’d think he’d take it a bit more personally.”

“He’s in an odd position.” Hermione observed. “He’s the King’s brother, but he’s not royalty. And he’s English, but he has a French title. And about that,” Hermione lent forward, “do you know who possibly the most famous Duc d’Orleans is?”

“No.” Harry admitted.

“Louis XIV’s brother, Philippe. Louis XIV built Versailles and he had the longest reign of any European monarch to date. Philippe was described as clever and attractive, and he was a talented military leader. But he was always in his brother’s shadow. His mother didn’t want him to challenge his brother for power, so she dressed him as a girl for a lot of his childhood, and he apparently continued to wear dresses as an adult. It probably didn’t help his reputation for being effeminate that he was gay, and relatively open about it. They weren’t terribly enlightened about that sort of thing back then, as you might imagine. There were also rumours that Louis had an affair with Philippe’s first wife. You have to wonder what the current King intended when he gave Malfoy that title.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Do not expect the courtiers to like you.” Malfoy said. He gave Harry a hard look. “They will treat you with courtesy befitting a guest of the King, but in general they hate the English.”

“Charming.” Harry muttered. 

They were in Snape’s office for the fifth Monday evening in a row. As before, they were sitting in front of the fire with a pot of tea between them. Malfoy had called for a house elf and asked for some biscuits. “I hope you don’t mind,” he had said, “I missed dinner. I had correspondence to attend to.” Malfoy had been unexpectedly cordial to Harry in their meetings. He was still sharp at times, usually when Harry asked questions he deemed to be stupid, but he was usually polite, if a little detached. He still looked awful, though. Everyday the bags under his eyes seemed to be deeper and his face was more drawn. Whatever the cause of his exhaustion was, a month and a half at Hogwarts had not alleviated it.

“Well, what do you expect?” Malfoy said now. “My father’s past escapades and current preferment by the King have only stirred up the rivalry that has always existed between us.”

“I suppose nicking their Queen might cause some bad blood.” Harry agreed.

“My mother was never Queen.” Malfoy corrected. “She was the Dauphine when she met my father.” Harry rolled his eyes and Malfoy scowled. “These things are important, many of the nobility will use any excuse to take offence. Demanding a public apology for some imagined slight is a key form of political manoeuvring. Be precise when you speak and keep your temper, whatever veiled insults are made against you.”

“And can I demand a public apology if people insult me?” Harry didn’t want to spend the whole holiday being on the receiving end of implied slurs. If he wanted that he could go to the Dursleys.

“If you really want to go to that much trouble, but it’s unusual for a guest. You'd have to get the King involved, it would be very messy. You're better off returning barbs of your own. As long as you don’t say anything that’s demonstrably untrue and you manage your tone you can be fairly unpleasant.” Malfoy’s own tone was light as he said this, but there was tension in his bearing. Harry imagined that his summer hadn’t been very pleasant.

They were interrupted, as they always were, by Snape’s entrance. “You weren’t at dinner.” He said by way of greeting.

“I had letters to write.” Malfoy’s tone was playful in a way it only ever was when speaking to his godfather.

“Well, I’m certainly not giving you whiskey on an empty stomach.” Snape retrieved only one tumbler from the cupboard of the sideboard.

“We had biscuits. Didn’t we, Potter?” Harry was too surprised at being included in their conversation to respond.

“That’s hardly an acceptable meal,” Snape remonstrated.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Sorry, mother.”

“Given that your mother appears to subsist solely on Bollinger and cucumber salad, I don’t think she’ll be handing out nutritional advice in the near future.” Malfoy’s retort was lost in a wide yawn that he quickly covered with his long fingers. Snape sneered, but it was softer than those usually directed at students. “Take him back to his common room, Potter. I'm not having him fall asleep here.”

“Er, right.” Harry said, unsure of whether Snape was serious or not.

Malfoy pushed himself to his feet, yawning again. “Come on, Potter, I’m knackered.”

As they left, Malfoy bade Snape goodnight. Harry still felt a twinge of envy and guilt in his gut whenever he saw Malfoy and Snape interact. Not that Snape ever seemed to say anything particularly nice to Malfoy, but Malfoy seemed to understand Snape’s attitude better than Harry ever had and reacted with joviality.

“What was so important that you missed dinner?” Harry asked as they made their way down the darkened corridor.

“Letters,” Malfoy said dismissively.

“What kind of letters take the whole of dinner? Couldn’t they wait?” Harry couldn’t imagine any letter that would engross him to such an extent that he would miss a meal.

“Court business.”

“Does that take up a lot of time?” Harry was intrigued; Malfoy did not often talk about his own role in the French court.

“Some,” Malfoy acknowledged lightly. “People believe that I’m an easy way to the King. They write to me asking that I petition the King for this and that, and so I must pass their request on or write them back telling them my refusal. It’s usually a refusal. I have no position in court, I’m not a politician. But if it’s some little thing, like that their daughter be permitted a position in the Queen’s household, or their son join His Majesty on a hunt, then I consider it. Only if their family has valuable connections or the children promising qualities.” He shot Harry a smirk. “Only if the daughter is ugly, or the Queen would never forgive me.”

Harry took that in for a moment. “Are you close to the Queen?”

Malfoy shrugged. “She’s the King’s wife, and they’re a good match.” His words were as impersonal as ever, but thee was a hint of warmth in his tone, and Harry suspected that he did in fact rather like Queen Élizabeth.

Malfoy rolled his shoulders and it sounded as though every joint and sinew in his shoulders, back and neck were popping and crunching at the same time. Harry winced. “That doesn’t sound healthy.”

Malfoy did it again with only slightly dramatic consequences. “I know. It’s one of the reasons I’m not playing quidditch this year, I’m falling apart.”

Shocked, Harry whipped around to look at Malfoy. “You’re not playing quidditch this year?” He parroted. “What’s wrong with you?” Harry couldn’t imagine anything less than a life-threatening injury preventing someone from playing quidditch.

“I don’t know really, just tired I suppose. Too much time spent at a desk, its nothing really.” He hesitated. “But my father doesn’t want me to play this year.” He admitted.

Malfoy was being unusually forthcoming, and Harry didn’t want to push him back into his shell, so he kept his tone neutral. “Why not?”

“He wants me to focus on my school work, NEWTs are important and he says sixth year is where all the real work is done.” Malfoy’s expression gave no clue as to how he might feel about this.

Harry thought being deprived of quidditch was inhumane, although he expected nothing less from Lucius Malfoy. “Couldn’t you just tell him to piss off?”

Malfoy gave him a look. “You have met my father, haven’t you, Potter?”

He had a point. Harry changed the subject. “About next week…”

“Yes?” Malfoy was looking directly at him now, an eyebrow raised, as they traversed the dungeons.

“I was wondering if we could change the day, I have a meeting I can’t change.” The Order was meeting to discuss the latest information brought in by their spies.

Malfoy scowled. “When, then? I’m quite busy, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I was thinking Sunday morning, maybe, before the Hogsmeade trip.”

“I can’t, I’ll be in Hogsmeade early for Mass. How about Sunday evening, after dinner?”

“Oh, yeah, ok. That suits me too.” Harry was inexplicably surprised by Malfoy’s statement. Every new detail about his life made Malfoy seem more like a real person to Harry, and Harry wasn’t sure whether he found it interesting or disconcerting.

As they neared the Slytherin common room, the wall slid open and Goyle stepped out. “Oh,” he said, and stopped short as he saw them. “There you are, Draco.”

“Here I am,” Malfoy agreed wryly, “sending out a search party, were you?”

“You didn’t have dinner,” Goyle said by way of answer. Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Did Potter walk you back?” Goyle didn’t sound impressed by the idea.

“Yes, he did, as Professor Snape suggested.”

“Is that a good idea?” Goyle asked.

“For God’s sake!” Malfoy snapped. “Will you stop being so ridiculous. I’m going to bed.” And he pushed past Goyle into the common room. Goyle shrugged and followed him.

 

Harry stood with Ron outside the Defence classroom. Defence lessons with Snape hadn’t been as appalling as Harry had feared. They had focuses not, as Remus had done, on magical beings, and not, as Umbridge tried, on theory, but rather on the practical skills necessary to defeat an opposing wizard. So far, Snape had drilled them on hexes, jinxes, counter curses and defensive magic. He had promised them that in this lesson, they would be able to put all this to use and duel each other. Harry had found himself reluctantly looking forward to the lessons, in spite of the teacher, and was rather excited to actually get some duelling practice. He also felt that they were finally learning something constructive, something that Harry, and everyone else who was going to be sucked into this war, could actually use.

“You can’t wait, can you?” Ron asked, sounding amused.

“What?” Harry felt himself flush a little at being so transparent.

“You’re itching to get duelling, I can tell.” Ron grinned.

“Well yeah,” said Harry, feeling a little defensive, “it’s important to practice this stuff, pretty soon we’re all going to need it.”

Ron sobered a little. “I reckon that’s true enough.” He opened his mouth to continue the thought, but was distracted by the arrival of Malfoy and Zabini. “I just wish we weren’t sharing the class with the Slytherins, I bet half of them are just waiting for You Know Who’s order to murder us in our beds.”

Zabini whipped around to face them. “You don’t have to be a Death Eater to want to curse you into a pile of ashes, Weasley.”

“Blaise.” Malfoy said with a warning tone.

Ron snorted derisively. “That’s right, Malfoy, call your dog back to heel.”

Zabini’s face contorted. “You’re pathetic, Weasley. I mean really, nine months in the womb and your mother ended up with you. Jesus Christ, I bet she cries herself to sleep every night.” He rounded on Harry, “And as for you, Potter-”

“That’s enough.” Malfoy interrupted him, a hand on Zabini’s chest. “I can’t deal with this right now, Blaise. Weasley, pull yourself together, we’re not twelve years old anymore. Let’s go inside.”

Harry noted with relief that Snape had opened the classroom doors and around them students were trooping inside. Malfoy whipped past him into the room, dragging Zabini by the arm, and they took seats at the front. Harry sat with Ron and the majority of the other Gryffindors at the back of the room. The room settled and Snape took his place at the front. Harry had noticed that his fellow Gryffindors behaved far better for Snape in Defence than they had in Potions. Perhaps they appreciated having a teacher that was finally teaching them something they could use, or perhaps they simply found the lessons less boring than Potions. Either way, they fell silent quickly as Snape rested his forearms on the lectern.

“Today you will be duelling. I expect all of you to treat this with the seriousness it merits, no carelessness or stupidity will be tolerated.” He treated every student to a piercing look before continuing. “In a moment I will be assigning partners, but first, a demonstration. Mr Malfoy, Mr Zabini, if you would.” Malfoy and Zabini stood and walked around their desks to the open space at the front of the room. “These two have already had some years of duelling training, they are not in need of the same basic instruction that I am trying to bestow upon the rest of you. Instead, they are going to demonstrate some of the skills necessary in duelling.” He turned his hard stare on the two students. “Or attempt to demonstrate.”

Malfoy’s lips twitched. “Yes, sir.”

“Now, usual training duel rules apply; do try not maim one another. And for the benefit of the audience, cast your spells aloud. Do you understand?” Both Slytherins nodded. “Then you may begin.”

Malfoy and Zabini turned to face one another and drew their wands. Zabini smirked sardonically and bowed, Malfoy returned the gesture with an elegant flourish. Then they levelled their wands at one another.

“Expulso!” Zabini shouted almost before his wand was up, and a pulse of blue shot towards Malfoy.

Harry wasn’t sure how that constituted avoiding maiming anyone, at close range the curse could easily kill. “Recanto!” Malfoy snapped. The green light that emerged from his wand met Zabini’s and enveloped it, leaving it to fizzle in the air without reaching its target or deflecting dangerously. “Slugulus Eructo!”

Beside Harry, Ron flinched. “Protego!” Zabini threw up a barrier and the curse bounced harmlessly into a wall without anyone vomiting slugs. “Lycacomia!”

Again, Harry was unsure that Zabini had really understood the boundaries of the duel. Casting a spell that would turn Malfoy into a werewolf hardly seemed appropriate. This time, Malfoy took a quick step to his right and ducked under his own vacated desk. The curse sparked off the classroom floor inches from him. 

“Tarantallegra!” 

His curse made contact and Zabini went down, legs twitching uncontrollably. In the time it took him to mutter the counter-charm, Malfoy had emerged from the other side of the desk. Malfoy cast Collocorpus, a sticking hex, but Zabini managed to roll out of the way and cast Reducto on his way to his feet. Malfoy ducked down behind the desk again. Malfoy proceeded to bombard Zabini with a succession of hexes and jinxes from under and over the desk. Zabini was hardly able to return any fire in between defending himself. Harry could read the frustration on his face as his wand work became sloppier, and in the end, Malfoy’s Anteoculatia broke his defences. A pair of very fine antlers sprouted from Zabini’s head, and his face contorted.

“Cru-”

“Langlock!” Malfoy cut across whatever curse Zabini had been about to cast, though Harry had his suspicions, and hopped up onto his desk as Zabini spluttered. “Petrificus Totalus!” Zabini keeled over backwards with a thud.

Malfoy jumped off the desk and advanced on Zabini. He did something complicated with his wand that Harry didn’t follow and Zabini’s head became free of the immobilising spell. Zabini glared at Malfoy, but Malfoy just smirked and raised an eyebrow, his wand still trained on his opponent.

“I concede.” Muttered Zabini.

Malfoy leaned in. “What was that, Blaise?”

Zabini’s scowl darkened. “I concede, you wanker, now let me up!” Malfoy’s smirk turned into a grin. 

“Language, Mr Zabini.” Snape cautioned. “You may as well let him up, Draco.”

Malfoy released the spell and helped Zabini to his feet. Zabini winced as he touched the back of his head where he had fallen. Malfoy brushed his hand aside and checked for damage himself. There didn’t seem to be any blood, and Zabini muttered an ‘I’m fine’ to Malfoy, but Malfoy sent a wash of healing green light over the area. Zabini rolled his eyes and nudged Malfoy’s shoulder affectionately with his own.

“You two can take your seats.” Snape instructed. “Now,” Snape addressed the room, “what did you notice about that duel? Why do you think Mr Malfoy won?” There was silence, the class was slightly stunned by the display they had witnessed. Snape sighed. “Anyone?”

Harry cautiously raised his hand.

Snape pursed his lips. “Yes, Mr Potter?”

“Because he used the desk.” Harry said hopefully, and then added, “Sir,” quickly. Since he had begun using Snape’s office for his meetings with Malfoy he had become irrationally reluctant to annoy the professor too much.

“Precisely. As soon as Mr Malfoy had found cover he had one. You must remember to be aware of your surroundings when you duel, whether they can offer you safety, or” he looked straight at Harry, “danger.” Harry thought, involuntarily, of Sirius falling through the Veil, as he was sure Snape had intended. He wasn’t sure whether Snape was being cruel or simply trying to hammer his point home. Watching him interact with Malfoy had confused Harry’s view of him. “What else?”

Pansy Parkinson raised her hand. “Draco was faster, sir.” Beside her Zabini elbowed her. She punched him in the thigh. Zabini winced and Malfoy snorted. He looked more relaxed and envigorated than Harry had seen him all year.

“If you’re finished,” Snape drawled, “but yes, Miss Parkinson is correct. Having a spell ready and cast before your opponent can complete theirs is one of the most important skills to have. I hope you will all remember that in your own practice duels. Now, I’m going to assign your partners, no swapping, no complaining. Mr Malfoy, Mr Zabini, you’re dismissed.” They left and Snape began to assign partners, in general, as was his habit, Slytherins and Gryffindors together. Harry got Theodore Nott, which didn’t impress him.

“You’re not going to try and turn me into a werewolf, are you? Like Zabini tried to with Malfoy.” Harry asked when the Slytherin sat down beside him.

Nott grinned. “Oh no, Potter. Malfoy’s told us all, you’re off limits. No serious disfigurement, in class or outside it.” 

Harry tried not to let his surprise show at Nott’s revelation. “Why not?” 

“You’re actually quite important, Potter, I don’t know if you’ve noticed. Anyway, I’m not stupid enough to get on Draco’s bad side, you saw what he did to Blaise.”

“Was Zabini actually going to,” Harry lowered his voice, “crucio Malfoy.”

“I don’t know,” Nott said cheerfully, “probably. Blaise has an awful temper.”

“But aren’t they friends?”

“Oh yeah.” Nott confirmed. Harry frowned.

 

Malfoy’s exhaustion had returned when Harry saw him next. The previous weekend had been the christening of the Dauphin, which Malfoy had attended. The photos in the Prophet, not, this time the front page, had shown Malfoy with his family in the gardens of Versailles. Malfoy’s nephew, Jean-Luc, was swaddled in a long white robe and held by his mother. Malfoy was in thick robes against the November chill, navy with silver embroidery. The dark fabric was stark against Malfoy’s skin and Malfoy looked tense as he looked out from the picture. The King also looked tense, resplendent as he was in white and gold, there was a tightness around his eyes and his smile appeared forced.

Malfoy was still tense when he approached Harry on the Monday after Halloween. “There are some people I want you to meet.”

“Who?” Harry asked, but he was already moving to follow Malfoy.

Malfoy hesitated. “You may have noticed that there has been some anxiety about my safety this year.”

“Yes.” That was an understatement.

“The fact is there have been threats.” Malfoy admitted.

“What kind of threats?”

“All kinds, really.” Malfoy passed a hand over eyes. “Some from Death Eater sympathisers, some from anti-monarchists, some from French purists who don’t like my father’s place in court. I had hoped it would die down once it became obvious that our position would not alter as a result, but if anything it’s become worse.”

“You’re worried about your safety at Hogwarts?” Harry thought that Hogwarts was the best place for Malfoy to be if he was being threatened.

“Not particularly, it’s probably safer than Versailles from anti-monarchists and purists, and if Death Eaters get in here I don’t expect I’ll be their primary concern.” Malfoy looked at Harry meaningfully. “But others are. The King has asked that certain precautions be taken.”

“What precautions? Has Dumbledore agreed?” He had agreed to Dementors, so Harry wasn’t particularly surprised.

“Yes, he wants to keep on the King’s good side. We’re all fighting the same war, after all. And as for the precautions, you’re about to meet them.” Malfoy led Harry towards the antechamber off the Great Hall. “His Majesty suggested that my cousins join me here to ensure that the castle is adequately protected.” He explained as he pushed the door open. “Potter, I’d like to introduce Flosi and Skarpheðinn Bjarnsson. Cousins, this is Harry Potter, the Marquess of Dorchester.”

Malfoy’s cousins were terrifying. Not particularly tall or even broad, but there as a wiry strength to them and their faces were weathered and sharp. They were almost as fair as Malfoy, but their hair was a darker blond and the taller one was sporting a magnificent beard. They both wore black robes and there was a hint of blue-black ink at their necks and wrists.

“We have heard much about you.” The taller one said. He had a trace of an accent, but it was unidentifiable. He held his hand out and Harry shook hands with him, and then his brother.

“Skarpheðinn specialises in curse-breaking and warding,” Malfoy explained, gesturing to the man who had spoken, “Flosi in runes and defensive magic.”

“If you have an interest in such things then I’m sure demonstrations can be arranged.” Flosi offered.

“Er, thanks,” Harry replied, thrown, “that would be great.”

Flosi grinned. “My brothers and I have long wished to join your war against the man who calls himself the Dark Lord.”

“Or any war.” Malfoy muttered.

“You have other brothers?” Harry asked, trying to be polite.

“There are six sons of Björn: the two of us, Gunnar, Grettir, Ragnar and Erik. We were chosen over our brothers because our skills were deemed most useful. But when the time comes we will all fight.” Flosi’s eyes gleamed dangerously.

“In the meantime we will ensure no harm comes to our little cousin.” Skarpheðinn added, clapping Malfoy on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger. “I’m sure we can count on your assistance, Lord Potter.” Harry nodded but didn’t get a chance to reply before Malfoy interrupted.

“Yes, well, we have class to get to. I just wanted to introduce you, Potter, but we should be getting on. I’ll see you at dinner.” He told his cousins. “They’re the sons of my father’s sister,” he explained as he led Harry away from the antechamber, “they’re completely insane.”

Harry liked them already.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'ð' Skarpheðinn is an eth, pronounced in Norse as a voiced 'th' as in 'then' or 'that' (as opposed to the unvoiced 'th' as in 'thin' or 'thistle' represented by a thorn, 'Þ').

Malfoy’s cousins were a lot of fun. Just watching them harass Blaise Zabini, with whom they seemed to be well acquainted, into a rage of hissing and spitting Italian made having dinner so much more enjoyable. Even if Malfoy did have to spoil it by saying something placatory to Zabini in Italian and then leaning across to chastise his cousins in yet another language.

“How many languages do you speak?” Harry asked him when he saw Malfoy at their next meeting.

“Just the ones I grew up with.” Malfoy gave one of his expressive shrugs. “English and French, obviously, and Italian because of Blaise and Icelandic because of my cousins.”

“You grew up with Zabini?” Harry was always interested in hearing about Malfoy’s childhood.

Malfoy took a sip of his tea. “Yes, he lived with us mostly. His mother is a difficult woman.” Malfoy’s tone was neutral but he was frowning.

“And his father?”

“Is dead.” Malfoy said shortly.

“Oh.” Harry hadn’t known that.

Malfoy was curled in his chair with his feet under him, and he looked over at Harry, his eyes sharp, face inscrutable. “It’s a very sad story, actually. Allegra Zabini was born Allegra Borgia. The Borgias are a powerful Italian family, like many others their power in the muggle world has dwindled just as their influence in our world has waxed. Allegra is the only child of Alfonso Borgia, and she fell in love with a poor count from Sicily, Cesare Zabini, but her father would not allow the match. They eloped to Venice and were married in secret and had Blaise. When Allegra’s family found out they had her husband killed. It changed Allegra greatly. She had known my mother at court, so she placed her son in my family’s care and went to travel the world. She takes husbands as she sees fit, but none of them measure up to her first love. She finds it too difficult to be around her son, he reminds her too much of Cesare.”

“That must be hard for him.”

“Of course, but Blaise gets along. He’s resilient.” Malfoy’s voice was fond.

“You like him a lot.” Harry realised.

“Of course. He’s the closest thing I have to a brother.” Then Malfoy hesitated, and added. “Aside from His Majesty, of course.” But Harry thought the first bit was the truth.

“He’s got a hell of a temper, though.” Harry noted, repeating Nott’s sentiment.

“Blaise? Yes, he gets that from his mother. Apparently she was just the same when she was younger. Had to be, I suppose, to disobey Alfonso Borgia. I met him once, he’s terrifying. She’s not like that anymore, though. She's very cold.”

“Zabini wouldn’t mind you telling me this?”

“No, it’s hardly a secret. Much discussed in wizarding circles, I understand.” Malfoy gives Harry another long look.

“Was he really going to crucio you in Defence? Or turn you into a werewolf?”

Malfoy snorted and rolled his eyes. “Blaise hasn’t landed a decent curse on me in at least the last four years, Potter. Trust me when I say I had nothing to worry about.”

“You’re that much better than him?”

“Blaise isn’t much for duelling, really. He’s had the same training as me, of course, but he much prefers longer and more intricate spell casting, like the kind my cousins practice. In particular, my cousin Grettir specialises in ancient rituals. He and Blaise have often worked on them together. That’s what he’s good at.”

“And the other Slytherins? Did you grow up with them?” 

“Only Gregory and Vince. Greg is the son of my father’s groundskeeper and Vince’s father is our steward.”

“Oh, so they’re your staff.”

Malfoy frowned. “They’re my friends.”

“But they’ll work for you when you’re older?” Harry found himself perversely fascinated by the ins and outs of Malfoy’s elevated lifestyle.

“Perhaps,” Malfoy conceded, “if they want. But they both have other options. Greg’s great with animals, so he’ll probably take a place on the palace hunt at Versailles. Vince is a talented cellist, there would also be a place at Versailles for him if he chose, but he could play for any orchestra he chose.”

Harry absorbed that for a few moments. Harry wasn’t used to thinking of the Slytherins as individuals with skills and preferences. Then, as his thoughts returned to the start of their conversation, an awful thought struck him. “I don’t have to learn French, do I?”

Malfoy looked at him as though he was the most stupid person he’d ever met. “No, Potter. Don’t you think I would have mentioned it before now? We have translation spells all over the palace for visitors. Lord, you're such a muggle.”

“Oh right, that makes sense.” Harry felt a bit stupid.

But he didn’t have long to ponder his faux par. A loud boom echoed through the dungeon and the castle seemed to quake. Harry and Malfoy both jumped to their feet and Harry spilt his tea all over his robes. Malfoy’s cup somehow ended up on the table without a drop leaving it. The door burst open and Skarpheðinn ran in, Flosi at his heals.

“The wards are under attack.” Skarpheðinn explained gruffly.

“Death Eaters?” Harry asked, and Skarpheðinn nodded.

Flosi grabbed Harry’s arm. “We need to go.”

Harry was dragged out of Snape’s office and into the hallway, where Snape was herding his detention students out of the classroom. Skarpheðinn had a hold of Malfoy’s robes and was bundling him down the corridor after Harry. Snape looked inestimably relieved to see his godson. He exchanged a pointed look with Skarpheðinn, and then snapped at his meandering students.

“Keep moving, make your way to the Great Hall in an orderly manner.”

The students started moving more purposefully and Flosi was able to manhandle Harry past them and up the stairs. They entered the Great Hall, which was empty save for a few startled looking Hufflepuffs who had already made their way up from their basement, and Harry shrugged out of Flosi’s hold.

“I can walk.” He snapped.

“This way.” Flosi replied calmly, and guided Harry more gently past the milling Hufflepuffs and to the other end of the Hall, where the teacher’s table was. The door behind the head table opened to a wave of Flosi’s hand. He directed Harry through, Malfoy and Skarpheðinn hot on their heels, and into the same chamber Harry had been ushered into after he had been declared one of the Triwizard Champions.

“Why are we in here?” Harry demanded immediately. He didn’t want to be shut in here waiting to find out what was happening while the rest of the school was out in the Great Hall.

“You two are going to be the highest on their list of targets. There’s no point making it easy for them.” Flosi explained.

“So we’re going to hide?”

Flosi rolled his ice blue eyes. “So, you’re going to make sure that if they do find you and we have to fight our way out, there aren’t a hundred defenceless children around to become collateral damage. Or would you prefer to have an eleven year old here to use as a shield?”

Harry frowned, of course not. “What about my friends?” He asked, deflated.

“They’ll be in the Great Hall, with everyone else.”

“Are the Death Eaters inside?” Malfoy interrupted.

“No,” Skarpheðinn replied, “the wards have held. But they’re still trying to get through.” In the distance Harry could still hear booms and crashes as the Death Eaters tried to break the wards.

“And will they?” Malfoy’s voice was tight.

Skarpheðinn shrugged. “I strengthened the wards. If they have enough skill, they will break them, if they do not, they will not.” There was enough earth-trembling boom. “This brute force will not work.”

Malfoy nodded. “Anyone in the ranks with enough finesse to unpick your wards defected with my father. We’re safe here.”

“I should still go and make sure there’re no cracks.” Skarpheðinn left the way they had come, passing Snape in the doorway to the great Hall.

Snape strode over to Malfoy. “You’re alright?”

“I’m fine,” Malfoy rolled his eyes, “they’re not even in the castle. Are Gregory and Vince in the Great Hall?”

“Yes.”

“And the rest of Slytherin?”

“Safely gathered in the Hall.” Malfoy nodded and Snape directed his attention to Harry. “You’re to stay here, Potter.” Harry frowned, but Snape went on before he could protest. “Or, Mr Bjarnsson is going to stun you and you’ll stay here. It’s you’re choice.”

Harry looked across at Flosi, who offered him a wide, feral grin, and shrugged his shoulders. “Fine.”

“Should Death Eaters enter the castle, this chamber will be sealed. Mr Bjarnsson knows the incantation to open it. He will only do so if he believes it to be safe, or it becomes untenable to remain here. You will be able to communicate with the rest of us through the portraits or by Patronus.”

“You had this all planned.” Harry belatedly realised.

“This is one of several contingency plans the staff has in place for eventualities such as this.” Snape sighed, “Try to keep your frustration under control, Mr Potter, you’re going to be in a confined space for the foreseeable future.”

Harry nodded grudgingly, he couldn’t deny that his skin was already itching from inaction. “Are Ron and Hermione okay?”

“They’re safely in the Great Hall with the other students, both are quite concerned for your safety.”

“Can I see them?”

“As long as it can be done discreetly, I don’t see why they shouldn’t come in for a few minutes.” Snape allowed.

“And what does the rest of this contingency plan involve. Me and Malfoy hiding in here while everybody else does the fighting?”

Snape regarded him with a sneer. “No, Potter, don’t be ridiculous. There are first and second years out there, there will be no fighting. If the wards break, then the castle has a line of physical defence. And I believe that the Aurors have been alerted. They will also attempt to defend the castle. If these fail, and the Death Eaters gain entry to the castle, then the staff will seek to come to an agreement that will secure the safety of all of the students. As you might imagine, this will be made significantly more difficult to achieve if two of the people that the Dark Lord most wants to kill are among the student body. You're not here for your own safety, Mr Potter, you’re here for everyone else’s.” 

He turned away from Harry and delved into a pocket in his robes, coming out with a crucifix on a string of beads, which he handed to Malfoy. Then he touched Malfoy’s hair, briefly, before he swept out. Harry, Malfoy and Flosi were left alone for several long minutes, the only sound in the room the clicking of Malfoy’s rosary as he mouthed his Hail Marys. The beads Snape had given him were a plain dark wood, varnished to a gleam. They stood out against the pale skin of his hands as he counted out his prayers. Harry felt some of the adrenaline leave him and he sat down beside Flosi on one of the sofas that inhabited the room. Malfoy remained standing near the fireplace, his eyes closed.

The calm was broken by the door opening. Ron and Hermione came in, both looking tired and worried. Harry got back to his feet and Hermione hugged him tightly.

“We were so worried about you.” She told him.

“Yeah,” Ron agreed, “when McGonagall came to the common room and told us all to go to the Great Hall, we thought you’d be here. But we couldn’t see you; we thought you might have gone off on your own, mate.”

Harry cast a glance at Flosi. “I didn’t get much of a chance.” He replied ruefully.

“Good.” Hermione said firmly, and Harry frowned at her. He’d have liked someone on his side.

“I don’t like all this sitting round, though.” Ron continued. “Feels like we’re just waiting for the Death Eaters to come and get us. I suppose being in a castle with only one way out is a bit of a tactical disadvantage in this situation.”

“Can’t we get the younger kids out through the secret passages?” Harry asked. It had been his first thought.

Ron shook his head. “All the passageways lead into Hogsmeade, the Death Eaters are bound to have people there. The wards start just a little way from the village.”

“They’re attacking all the way down by Hogsmeade?” Harry was shocked. “But the whole castle’s shaking.”

“The wards are linked directly to the castle foundations.” Hermione explained. “We’re feeling the full force of the spells hitting them. If they break the castle could start to come down around our ears.”

“Not if I can help it.” Blaise Zabini had slipped into the chamber as they had been talking. “Shift yourself, Potter.” He chivvied Harry out of the way so he could get to the wall behind him.

Zabini drew his wand and began to trace an intricate pattern on the stone. In its wake his wand left a bright white line that glowed for a few moments before fading.

“What are you doing?” Hermione asked.

“Concentrating.” Zabini replied pointedly, not taking his eyes from the wall.

Malfoy had finished his Rosary, but it didn’t seem to have much calmed him. “He’s putting runes in place that will support the castle if the wards collapse. They need to go on all the ground floor supporting walls.”

“We didn’t do this in class.” Hermione was immediately indignant. “Have you been having special lessons?” She asked Zabini.

Zabini once again ignored her. Malfoy answered instead. “We put them up in the manor the summer before last. All in one enchantments used to be very popular, but the conventional wisdom now is to have several separate enchantments that can be individually adjusted and won’t all fail at the same time.” He was running the beads through his hands as he spoke, and they clicked anxiously.

Zabini finished his runes and the wall lit up with a grid of white glowing lines. They blazed for a moment then faded, leaving the room feeling very dark.

“Do you remember, Blaise?” Malfoy said into the silence. “When we did it at the manor, it shone gold. It must be something to do with the-” Zabini interrupted him by putting his hand over Malfoy’s, preventing the frantic movement of his rosary.

“He’ll be fine, Draco.” Zabini said firmly, and then he too left the room as swiftly and silently as he had entered.

“You’re worried about Snape.” Harry realised.

“His position with the Dark Lord is precarious. If he has to choose between protecting the students and protecting himself, I know what he’ll choose.” Malfoy began to click the rosary beads again.

“He gave you those…” Harry nodded at the beads.

“In case I don’t see him again.” Malfoy finished.

But it didn’t come to that, and Harry, Malfoy and Flosi were only waiting a half hour after Ron and Hermione left before Professor McGonagall entered.

“You can return to your common rooms,” she told Harry and Malfoy, “the Aurors have dispersed the Death Eaters in Hogsmeade. The wards were not breached, thanks in large part to the help you and your brother have given us, Mr Bjarnsson. You have our gratitude.”

“We do our best.” Flosi replied. “Come, cousin, it’s late.” And before Harry had really registered McGonagall’s words, he had ushered Malfoy out of the room.

Harry didn’t see Malfoy again face to face until their next scheduled meeting, which fell just four days before their departure for Versailles. Harry couldn’t fathom how the time had flown by so fast. Between discussions with Malfoy, meetings with the order, and extra training with Dumbledore and the Bjarnssons, Harry had had very little time to enjoy being at Hogwarts.

Malfoy went through his usual ritual of tea making. “I want to go over a few points of etiquette, Potter.”

“Ok, good idea.” Harry agreed. He didn’t want to make any more of a fool of himself than necessary.

“You should refer to the King as ‘Your Majesty’ or ‘Sire’. When entering a room, nobility enter in order of precedence. As you are a guest, the King may wish for you to assume a particular position, but unless otherwise directed, Marquises come directly after Dukes. If it’s any comfort to you, you will precede my father.” The thought did indeed give Harry some satisfaction, but he quickly clamped down on it. All of this stuff was ridiculous anyway. “At Versailles, every moment of the day is proscribed by routine. The day starts with the King’s petit lever in his bedchamber. It’s now a smaller event than it has been in the past. Only a privileged few are allowed to attend, mainly those nobles who serve as gentlemen of the bedchamber. You may or may not be granted access to the King at this time, it depends how well His Majesty likes you. Then there is the grand lever, when the King leaves his rooms and goes to mass, it is important that every member of the court is present at this time if they wish for advancement. I would recommend attending both the grand lever and mass if you wish to make headway with the King. Also there are hunts, parties and dinners that you must be seen at. On Christmas Eve there will be a ballet, and another on Boxing Day. There will be a feast at midnight on Christmas Eve, when gifts will be exchanged. Christmas Day itself will be a day of hunting and repose. Evenings are spent playing cards and making polite conversation. Every interaction you will have with another courtier will be political in nature. Ensure that you show appropriate deference to those above you in the hierarchy. Address them as ‘sir’ or ‘monsieur’.”

“And what should I call you?” Harry didn’t particularly relish the idea of calling Malfoy ‘sir’.

Malfoy hesitated, realising Harry’s dilemma. “You can call me Draco. I will call you Harry. People will assume we’re close friends, but perhaps that’s for the best. You’re position is going to be constantly challenged because you’re English, because you haven’t been brought up at court and because you’ll be seen as trying to draw the King into a war that doesn’t concern him. You’ll have to stand your ground at every turn.”

“Sounds like fun,” Harry said sceptically.

Malfoy tipped his head back against the armchair. “It’s going to be exhausting.”

Malfoy already looked exhausted, and as he went on to outline the other preparations that would need to be made in the next few days, Harry understood why. A tailor was coming from Paris to make sure both of them had outfits in the latest court fashion. “So send to Gringotts, Potter” Malfoy said, “it’s going to be exorbitantly expensive.” And there were gifts to buy for the King and Queen, and the new Dauphin, both to mark their arrival and to give on Christmas Eve. “But I’ll pick them,” Malfoy assured him, “you just put your name on the card.” They hadn’t even left Hogwarts yet, and Harry already couldn’t wait for it to be over.


	5. Chapter 5

There was snow on the ground when Harry and Malfoy met outside the doors to the castle. They were both dressed in their warmest dress robes in an attempt to ward off the pervasive chill that permeated the castle at this time of year. Harry had a trunk with him that was packed to the brim with clothing he didn’t recognise. He had been bemused by the tailor, who had chattered to Malfoy in French and ignored Harry except to take his measurements and test differently coloured fabrics against his skin tone. In spite of his protests that he didn’t want anything too ostentatious, the next day he had received a package bulging with velvet and glittering embroidery. It had taken a dozen exhausted owls to drag the parcel into the Great Hall, and Harry had had to endure the jibes from his friends for the extravagance of his purchases. For today, Harry had chosen a relatively subdued robe in cobalt velvet with black embroidery and a black cloak. Malfoy was resplendent in forest green robes with gold embroidery and a matching, fur-lined cloak. He looked Harry over critically.

“You’ll do, I suppose.” He allowed.

“Cheers,” Harry muttered, not appreciating Malfoy’s banter.

Malfoy looked amused. “Are you nervous, Potter?”

Harry scowled. “Wouldn’t you be?”

Malfoy gave his little, expressive shrug. “I suppose.” He smiled a little, just a softening of his sharp eyes and a twitch of his lips. “Don’t worry, I’ll look after you.” Harry didn’t know how to respond, and before he could formulate anything, Malfoy held out a narrow silver rod. It was about the length of Harry’s forearm and had the appearance of two engraved sword hilts lain pommel to pommel. “This will take us to the stables.”

“That’s the portkey?” Harry asked. It didn’t look like any he’d ever used; they were usually random objects.

“Yes, it came from the palace yesterday. What were you expecting, an empty butterbeer bottle?”

“I hadn’t thought.”

“Well, start thinking. Not even I can protect you from your own stupidity.” Then Malfoy softened. “Just act like you know what’s going on, Potter, and you’ll be fine.” He held out the portkey. “Ready?”

Harry took hold of the other end of the portkey and a moment later felt the familiar twisting, jerking sensation of being dragged away. He landed solidly on his back on a paved surface, his trunk skittering from his grip. He lay for a few moments recovering the breath that had been knocked out of him. Then Malfoy appeared above him and offered him a hand up.

“Utterly graceless.” Malfoy informed him.

Harry began to retort, but was interrupted by the thunder of paws and two huge streaks of grey before Malfoy was covered in a mound of moving fur.

“Off.” Came Malfoy’s voice from somewhere behind one of the dogs’ massive heads. Immediately both dogs flopped back to the floor. “That’s very bad manners.” Malfoy remonstrated with the enormous hounds as he brushed himself off, and they both hung their heads and flicked their tails low in apology. Malfoy smiled indulgently. “But it’s alright,” he told them, and their tails came back up to wag furiously. They were each as tall as Harry’s waist and, though slender, had broad, muscular shoulders. Their fur was coarse and shades of grey and brown. Malfoy crouched down and held out a hand to each dog, and they came in with their heads low and their bodies wiggling happily to butt their faces against his hands and snuffle in his ears. “Alright,” Malfoy said after a few moments, standing up, “that’s enough. Go and say hello to Potter.”

Malfoy pointed at Harry and the dogs turned their attention to him, approaching him with the same lowered heads and wiggling torsos. Harry took a step back uncertainly.

“Oh right,” Malfoy said belatedly, “you haven’t met them. Boys, sit.” The wiggling continued for a moment and Malfoy said pointedly, “Please.” They sat, heads up and eyes bright. “Potter, this is Ajax,” Malfoy indicated the more brown-toned dog, “and Bors.”

“They’re huge.” Was all Harry could think to say.

“They’re Irish Wolfhounds.” Malfoy explained. “They’re very friendly. Well,” he amended, “when they want to be.”

“Right,” Harry’s voice betrayed his uncertainty.

“Hold out you hand, let them smell you.” Malfoy encouraged. “Go on, palm up under Ajax’s chin.”

Harry did as he had been instructed. The hound sniffed thoughtfully at Harry’s hand, and then lowered his chin onto it. Harry stared at the handful of Wolfhound muzzle he held.

“Give him a scratch, then. Merciful Lord, have you never seen a dog before?”

Harry had indeed seen many dogs, and interacted with plenty of them. He gave Ajax an obliging scratch and the dog extended his neck to give Harry more room.

“Don’t forget about Bors.”

Leaving his left hand with Ajax, Harry repeated the same ritual with Bors with his other hand.

“They like you.” Malfoy observed as Bors presented Harry with an ear to scratch behind. Harry found himself relieved at that. “That’s enough of that, come on.” Harry wasn’t sure whether the instruction was directed at him or the dogs. Malfoy started walking. “Leave the trunk, Potter, it’ll be taken to your rooms.”

They walked through the stable and Harry took a moment to examine his new surroundings. They were traversing the length of a large, semi-circular colonnade made of pale stone and carved ornately. To their right was an open courtyard and to their left a blank wall.

“This is the Petite Écurie.” Malfoy explained. “The Little barn. It used to be the Court’s secondary stable, but as we no longer use the Grand Écurie, this is where all of the King’s and courtiers’ horses are stabled.”

They were approaching the centre of the semi-circle, and ahead of them on the left a corridor opened up leading further into the stables. On the right the arches ended and there was an arched doorway. The doors were closed and there was a circular opening where the keyhole would normally be. Malfoy took the portkey from within his robes and slid it into the opening. The lock clicked and the doors began to swing open.

“This allows admittance only for those who were touching the portkey at the time of travel.” Malfoy explained. “The doorway is warded against all others.”

Harry didn’t respond because as the doors opened they revealed not the courtyard, as Harry had expected, but a hallway extending away, white and brightly lit by chandeliers hanging from the arched ceiling.

“Oh,” was all Harry could say.

Malfoy smirked. “This door leads directly to the palace, it keeps us from having to fight through the muggles outside. We’re looking directly into the North Wing of the palace. This is the Gallery of Illustrious Men. Welcome to Versailles, Potter.”

Harry stepped over the threshold. The floor was tiled in black and white, and the walls were a cream stone. On the right were windows spilling light across the tiles and on the left various statues of men carved from the same cream stone stood in alcoves.

“Don’t muggles come and visit Versailles all the time?” Harry asked absently as he examined the space.

Malfoy shrugged enigmatically. “They think they do.” Then he strode away down the corridor, shoes ringing out on the floor.

Harry hurried to follow, barely able to tear his eyes away from the intricately carved statues. As he followed Malfoy, one of the statues stepped out into his path. Malfoy stopped abruptly and bowed.

“Sir,” he said in greeting.

The statue also swept a bow. “Your Royal Highness.”

Malfoy frowned. “Sir, please, I must implore you not to bestow such a title upon me.”

The statue tutted. “Nonsense, you’re the brother of the King.”

“I won’t have this argument with you again, I don’t recall making any headway last time.” Malfoy responded with wry smile.

“Nor will you the next time.” The statue quipped. “But won’t you introduce me to your friend?”

“Of course. Allow me to present Harry Potter, the Marquess of Dorchester.” Malfoy turned to Harry. “Harry, let me introduce His Serene Highness the Prince of Condé.” The statue was wearing a broad, feathered hat, high boots and wielded a large sword. He didn’t look particularly serene.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, young sir.” The statue addressed Harry. “Your arrival is greatly anticipated.”

“It’s nice to meet you too, your, er, Serene Highness.”

“Please, call me Condé.”

“Alright,” Harry agreed mechanically, “call me Harry.”

“Perfect.” Condé turned back to Malfoy. “Now, I have a message for you, Draco. The King is waiting to receive you in the Salon of Hercules.” The statue leant forward conspiratorially. “I think His Majesty has missed you.”

Malfoy dipped his head modestly. “I’m sure His Majesty has had more important things to concern himself with.” He motioned to Harry. “If you’ll excuse us, Condé, we mustn’t keep His Majesty waiting.”

Condé stepped aside with a flourish and let Harry and Malfoy through.

“That’s the Grand Condé,” Malfoy explained in an undertone, “a great general from the seventeenth century.”

“He seems to like you,” Harry whispered back.

Malfoy snorted. “He’s going to get me killed.”

Harry looked at him askance. “How? He seems nice enough.”

“If the wrong person hears him calling me ‘Your Royal Highness’ I’m going to be murdered in my sleep.” Ajax growled softly behind them. “Hush.”

“Does he understand English?” Harry asked, glancing anxiously at the dogs.

“I’m speaking French,” Malfoy replied distractedly, “you’re the only one speaking and hearing English.”

“Right.” Harry chose not to dwell on that. “Do they understand French? He growled when you said about being killed.”

“Some words, probably more than I’ve taught them. But I think he was just responding to my tone.”

They were rapidly approaching the end of the corridor, signified by a pair of busts flanking duck egg blue doors. The doors swung open as they approached and Harry followed Malfoy into the next room. He found himself on a balcony that had a railing along its length on the right and a wall with a single opening on the left.

“We’re above the chapel vestibule,” Malfoy explained. They approached the opening in the left-hand wall and Harry saw that it was in fact another pair of blue doors, decorated with gold and open to show another balcony beyond. “That’s the chapel through there.” Malfoy gazed out through the doors and crossed himself absently.

Harry looked as well. The hall beyond was in the same white stone, gilt with gold. It was cavernous. More than double the height of the corridor they had left, there was only a balcony running around the edge of the chapel at their height, and from his angle Harry couldn’t see the floor below them. There were pillars along the length of the balcony and the domed ceiling high above ceiling was richly painted with religious imagery. Directly opposite Harry was a golden organ with silver pipes. The room was captivating. It was the first demonstration Harry had seen of the true luxury and extravagance of Versailles.

“This is my favourite view in the palace.” Malfoy noted.

“It’s amazing.” More than that, but Harry didn’t have the words.

Malfoy gave Harry a rare smile and turned away from the view towards Harry.

“The King is waiting behind those doors.” Malfoy brushed dust from Harry’s robes and straightened his collar anxiously. The sudden contact startled Harry slightly, it was probably the closest they had come since their scuffles in previous years. “Try not to make a fool of yourself.”

“I’ll try,” Harry replied tensely.

Malfoy nodded and stepped away from him. “Bors, Ajax, bedroom.” He instructed, and the two hounds turned and trotted back the way they had come. The doors they had entered the balcony through opened as the dogs reached them, and then closed firmly behind them.

The doors at the other end of the balcony were guarded by red-robed sentries standing immobile and imposing. Malfoy scarcely checked his stride as they stepped out of his way and opened the doors. Harry was close at Malfoy’s heels as they entered the Salon of Hercules. It was, unlike what had gone before, not white. Instead, the walls were decorated in slabs of red or blue veined marble, with gilt moulding and a classical scene painted onto the ceiling. It was large room, though not in the same league as the chapel, and there were arched windows on two sides making it bright and airy in spite of the imposing colours. But Harry only took in the décor for a moment before is attention was drawn inexorably to the other end of the room, where a small group of people was clustered before the fireplace.

King Louis XXIII was immediately recognisable from the photographs Harry had seen of him in The Prophet. He was wearing robes in a gold brocade and his brown hair was long down his back. Beside him were his wife, also in gold, and Lucius Malfoy in royal blue and silver. Others also milled around there. Their murmured conversation ceased at Harry and Malfoy’s entrance and the King stepped away from the group and toward the centre of the room. Malfoy met him there, Harry at his shoulder, and they both bowed before the King. Harry held the awkward position Malfoy had shown him until the King motioned for them to rise. As soon as Malfoy was upright, the King embraced him.

“I have missed you, brother.” Louis said.

“And I you, Your Majesty.” Malfoy returned the hug with a light touch on his half brother’s shoulders. Then he delicately extricated himself. “Your Majesty, allow me to present Harry Potter, the Marquess of Dorchester.”

“Your Majesty,” Harry said, as he had been instructed, and inclined his head.

“Lord Dorchester,” Louis replied. “We are very pleased to have you at our court. I hope your journey was comfortable.”

“Quite, thank you, Sire.” Harry thought of his hard landing on the stable floor. “I’m pleased to be here.”

The King held out his hand behind him and his wife stepped forward to join them. “Draco, welcome home.” The Queen said warmly, and held out her hand for Malfoy to kiss. 

He did so. “Your Majesty, I’m happy to back.”

Then she extended her hand to Harry, and he bowed and kissed it too. “Lord Dorchester, it’s so good to finally meet you. We’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Oh,” said Harry, self conscious in front of the beautiful Queen, “only good things, I hope, Your Majesty.”

She laughed, sweet and musical. “Of course, you command great respect, I think.”

“Well, erm, I don’t know about that.”

She laughed again. “And you are most charming.” She proclaimed.

“You will join us for dinner,” Louis broke in, more a command than a question. “And you, of course, Draco. I won’t dine without my brother beside me on his first night at home.” Harry didn’t miss the look the King shot behind him at Lucius Malfoy, who was watching the exchange with a sour expression.

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Malfoy replied for both of them. “We would be honoured.”

Louis smiled. “Excellent. In that case, Draco, I chose this room to meet you because I knew how anxious you would be to get to the chapel, so if you wish, then you are excused.”

“Thank you, Sire.” Without another word, Malfoy bowed and left the room through one of the doors beside the fireplace. He did not pause as he passed his father.

“And you, Lord Dorchester, you must be tired. My valet, Blouin, will show you to your chambers where you can rest a little, and then perhaps you might tour the castle. If that is agreeable?”

“Most agreeable, thank you, Sire.” A man, presumably Blouin, detached himself from group and lead Harry out of the room.

Harry’s suite was sumptuous. They were on the second floor of the central part of the palace. Harry had been able to work out by looking out of the windows on his way through the palace that the hallway they had arrived in was on the first floor of one of the wings of the building, and the room they had met the King in connected that wing to the main building. Blouin had led Harry up a flight of stairs and out towards the front of the building, whereas the Salon of Hercules was at the back. The walls of the suite were white panelled wood, but the furniture was covered in turquoise and gold silk. There were several sitting rooms and a bathroom, as well as a spacious bedroom with a canopy bed. Harry found his trunk waiting for him, and unpacked a few items. Then, as the King had suggested, Harry rested.

He was brought out of his doze by a knock on the outer door. He pushed himself off the bed and went to the door. Upon opening it, Harry found himself face to face with two young women, just a few years older than himself. One was blonde, like the Queen, and the other had fiery red hair. Both were wearing robes that fitted more like dresses, with fitted bodices and wide skirts, both covered in delicate floral embroidery. The blonde was wearing lavender, and the redhead pale green. Harry stared at them for a moment, surprised and unsure of what to say.

“Lord Dorchester?” The blonde asked.

“Yes,” Harry replied.

“I’m Florence de Rohan, and this is Charlotte Fouquet.” She indicated the redhead. “We’re Maids of Honour to Her Majesty. She requested that we escort you to her rooms, so that she can show you the palace.”

That was unexpected. “Oh, well, that would be nice.”

“Excellent,” Lady Florence said, and took Harry’s arm. “The Queen doesn’t hold with all of this stuffy standing on ceremony. She wants to meet you properly.”

“She’s made a lot of changes since she became Queen.” Lady Charlotte agreed from Harry’s other side. “The old Queen didn’t even have Maids of Honour, just a few ancient companions. She didn’t even like girls from noble families to come to court until they were married. Imagine trying to find a husband while you’re cooped up at home.”

“Awful,” Harry replied, mildly stunned by the useless information being thrown at him. Both girls had a buoyant manner that was unsettling after the genteel welcome he had been given by the King. They were leading him across the front of the central palace, past windows that overlooked the gardens at the front of the building.

“So,” Lady Florence said, and she turned her sharp gaze on Harry, “you’re friends with the Little Cavalier.”

“Who?”

“The Duc d’Oleans,” she said, as though it were obvious, “everyone calls him that because he has those big eyes, you know, like a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel.”

Harry had seen Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, there was one that lived on Privet Drive with bulging eyes and a tongue that constantly poked out of the corner of his mouth. Malfoy looked nothing like that.

“And because he flocks around the King like a lap dog.” Added Lady Charlotte. “Why, I heard that in the evenings he sits at the King’s feet before the fire.” She giggled.

“And what would you know about that?” Lady Florence demanded of her friend. “You’re hardly a frequent guest in the King’s chambers, Charlotte.”

“And you are?” Lady Charlotte retorted.

“Yes, I’m a friend of Draco’s.” Harry cut in, answering Lady Florence’s original question before the argument could escalate. He had to make a conscious effort to call Malfoy ‘Draco’, as he had suggested, and describing him as a friend felt like something of an exaggeration. 

They were descending a staircase now to the first floor, and Harry glimpsed the rustle of movement from the portraits that lined the walls.

“Weelll,” Lady Charlotte drew out the syllable, exchanging a significant look with her fellow Maid, “in that case perhaps you can answer a question for us.”

“I think that rather depends what it is.” Harry kept his tone light but his words were guarded.

Lady Charlotte tittered again. “Has he resolved the matter of his engagement with his father?” She regarded Harry avidly.

Harry, unsure of what she meant but curious, chose his words carefully. “I’m not sure that’s something I should be discussing.”

Lady Florence snorted. “Please, the scene he made was so pubic, it’s hardly a secret now. I mean really, storming into the King’s council room and demanding to know whether it was the King or Lord Wiltshire who had started arrangements for his marriage. As if he has the right to demand answers from His Majesty. Not that the King was particularly involved, I don’t think. Then the Little Cavalier says that he won’t marry Louise de la Fare, even though it would be such an advantageous match for him, and storms out again. Apparently the Earl still isn’t speaking to him.” The delight was clear in her voice.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t have objected to the match if it had been with, perhaps, Antoine de Choiseul.” Lady Charlotte was almost beside herself.

“Or,” Lady Florence suggested, “the Chevalier de Maintenon.” The two descended into fits of giggles.

“Monsieur and the Chevalier, history repeats itself.” Lady Charlotte crowed.

Harry knew what the girls were alluding to. Hermione had mentioned the connotations of Malfoy’s title, and Harry had himself looked into Philippe I d’Orleans, who was generally called Monsieur, to satisfy his curiosity. Although married twice, Philippe’s main romantic attachment had been to the Chevalier de Lorraine. Hermione had wondered what the King’s intentions had been in giving Malfoy the same title. If Louis had wanted to make implications to the rest of the court regarding his brother’s sexuality, he had succeeded. As for the truth of the matter, Harry couldn’t guess.

“And what,” a voice interrupted the hysteria, “is so funny? Flora? Charlotte?”

The girls jumped out of their skin and wheeled to face the voice. Harry turned too, and saw Queen Élizabeth sitting in a chair among a cluster in the corner of the room. The room, Harry now saw, was one of the most ornate he had seen. It was walled by white and blue marble, with gold moulding, and the ceiling was extensively decorated.

“Your Majesty,” Lady Florence said querulously as they all dipped, “we were coming to meet you in your rooms.”

“And where do you think you are, silly goose?” The Queen asked.

“We weren’t paying attention,” Lady Charlotte admitted unnecessarily.

“That much is obvious,” the Queen said tartly, but didn’t scold the girls further. Instead she turned her attention to Harry. “Well, Lord Dorchester, I apologise for your rather unorthodox entrance. This is the Salon of Peace. Won’t you come and sit with me.”


	6. Chapter 6

The Queen was an engaging conversationalist. Harry sat with her and drank tea as she lightly questioned him about his life at Hogwarts. A number of ladies sat with them and joined in the conversation at times. Lady Florence and Lady Charlotte sat with a gaggle of younger girls at the side of the room, and they seemed happy to chatter among themselves.

“And you hope to become an Auror?” Queen Élizabeth enquired.

“Yes,” Harry replied, “as long as I get the NEWTs I need.”

She smiled. “It’s so nice to meet someone with ambition, so many of the young people that come to court have no thought but their advancement here.” 

One of her ladies nodded. “There are things in life besides an advantageous marriage and a place on the hunt.”

“That’s why I chose Maids of Honour, as well as Ladies in Waiting. Just as you had I England, I believe.” The Queen continued.

“I wouldn’t know.” Harry’s knowledge of British court life was still limited and he was in no hurry to change that.

“I hoped that having the girls here, rather than confined to their families’ homes, would allow them to broaden their horizons, and dissuade their parents from arranging hurried marriages for them.” She cast her eyes over at the girls by the window. “It has been successful in some cases, though less so in others.”

The Queen picked up the ruby Cavalier King Charles that had been sleeping on her lap since Harry had entered the room and put it on the floor. It grumbled and stretched, blinking its bulging eyes. It was clear that Lady Florence or whoever had come up with the nickname for Malfoy had not had to look far for inspiration. Then the Queen stood.

“Won’t you accompany me on a walk along the gallery, Lord Dorchester?” Queen Élizabeth asked Harry.

“Oh, of course.” Harry stood as well.

“Marie, Claudine, would you accompany us?” Two of the ladies got to their feet. “Gabrielle, perhaps you would keep an eye on Belle and the girls?”

“Of course, your Majesty.” A third woman picked the little dog up and placed it on her lap. It curled up and snuffled contentedly.

The Queen took Harry’s arm and led him out of the Salon of Peace, past the stairs Harry had descended and on to a pair of doors. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen our Hall of Mirrors, have you, Lord Dorchester?”

“Not yet,” Harry replied. And then he was stepping through the doors and the hall was before him.

The gold was so bright that it almost hurt Harry’s eyes. The clear, winter light was flooding through the arched windows on the left of the gallery and rebounding from the arched mirrors on the right. The walls were constructed of red and white marble, and the arched ceiling was painted with scenes of war and religion. And the gold covered everything: in the window arches and between them, moulded along the top of the walls and into elaborate figures on the ceiling. There were gilt statues holding miniature chandeliers and gold chains suspending the huge crystal chandeliers that punctuated the hall and shone in the sun like they were on fire. Harry recognised the room from the photos he had seen in the Prophet in the summer, but seeing it in reality was almost too much to process.

“What do you think?” The Queen asked as she led him further into the hall.

“It’s beautiful, Your Majesty.” Harry answered truthfully.

She favoured him with a smile. “Please, call me Lisette.”

“Oh,” Harry said in surprise. He glanced around at the women who had accompanied them; they were a little way behind and talking softly. “Are you sure?” Harry had never had any suggestion from Malfoy that that would be appropriate.

She laughed at him kindly. “Yes, I’m sure. Plenty of people address me by my first name. I lived here for a long time and had many friends here before I was Queen. I do not hold with these old-fashioned traditions, not in private.”

“Of course,” Harry felt stupid, “it’s just that Malfoy, Draco, said…” Harry trailed off, unsure of what he was trying to say.

“Draco is very proper about these things. It was his father that raised him this way, I think.” Lisette’s voice showed a little distaste at the thought of Lucius Malfoy, and Harry liked her even more. “And my husband encourages it. I tell him not to, but he finds it charming – his brother the little duke.” She tutted. “Are you close with my brother-in-law, Harry? I may call you Harry?”

“Of course,” Harry replied to her second question, then considered her first. “We don’t really know each other that well, we’re in different houses at school and we argued a lot when we were younger.” Less than a year ago, really, but he was reluctant to tell her that. “But we’re getting along better now, he’s been helping me a lot.” Harry realised this was true. Although their arrangement had started as simply a mutually beneficial one, Harry had begun to enjoy their meetings, even Malfoy’s biting sarcasm no longer bothered him.

They progressed slowly along the hall. “And how do you find him?” Lisette asked. “Do you think him well?”

Harry considered. “I don’t know. He looks tired a lot of the time, and stressed.”

She nodded. “I think so too. This situation with your English Dark Lord tries him greatly.” She looked at Harry sharply. “And you wish my husband to involve himself with it.” She had stopped walking, and Harry realised the true purpose of this interview.

It wasn’t a question, but Harry felt the need to answer her. He chose his words carefully. “Unfortunately, I think the King will find himself involved whether he likes it or not. Voldemort won’t ignore the fact that Lucius Malfoy, one of the most prominent defectors from his ranks, has been made welcome here. And even without that insult, he would not appreciate the influence His Majesty has over the English nobility. Voldemort wants to reign supreme, in England at least, and maybe further afield at some point. I don’t think it will be long before he demands something from the King, whether it be simply the return of Lucius Malfoy, or some grander acceptance of Voldemort’s superiority. At some point the King will need to decide if he’s going to acquiesce to Voldemort’s demands or make a stand against him.”

“But Voldemort has not made any demands, Harry. He has left us in peace. You understand that we might be reluctant to break that peace.” Lisette observed.

“Voldemort doesn’t know what peace is.” Harry replied. “He’s being trying to kill me my whole life. He tried to kill me when I was a year old, just because he thought I might grow up to be a threat. He’s been trying to kill me ever since, even when I was just a child who couldn’t have hurt him. And he’s insane now; even if he started out last time with a purpose and a political rhetoric, now he’s turned into a monster with no concern for whom he hurts. He took such risks this summer just to try to kill me that he revealed himself to the Ministry,” Harry didn’t want to bring up the prophecy, “and even his most loyal followers have started to abandon him. If he’s left you alone it’s because his attention has been elsewhere. The moment he decides you pose a threat he’ll seek to destroy you, yes, so perhaps you might be reluctant to get involved. But he’s unstable, so he could decide at any time that you’re a danger to him, or that for some reason you’re not worthy of living in the world he wants to create, and he’ll try to destroy you all anyway. I’d say your best option is to get ahead of it, to make your stand while his attention’s still on securing the UK, so that you can work with those of us who are still resisting him there.”

The Queen regarded him coolly for many long moments. “You make your case well, and passionately.” She said, and Harry blushed, realising he had been a little more enthusiastic than he intended. “I happen to agree with you, although I do not like the idea of instigating violence. Lord Voldemort is not simply a rival political force in Britain; he is a terrorist. More than that, he is seeking to commit genocide. There may be some even within this palace who have some sympathy with his politics. I am not one of them. I am unwilling to allow atrocities to be committed while I could try to stop them, even if they are on foreign soil. If you wish to petition my husband to aid you in your cause, Harry, then I will add my voice to yours.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, although it did not cover the sudden wave of gratitude he felt at having another ally in this place.

“You’re welcome,” she said lightly, and they began walking again. “Now, will you tell me how you are finding Versailles?”

“Overwhelming,” Harry admitted, “everything’s so beautiful, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“That is understandable,” the Queen began, but stopped when the doors at the other end of the gallery, which she and Harry had almost reached, opened and Malfoy stepped through.

Malfoy was once again flanked by Bors and Ajax, and all three stopped when they saw Harry and Lisette. “Your Majesty,” Malfoy said, and bowed. The dogs, following Malfoy’s cue, executed bows of their own. They bent and laid their front legs on the floor up to the elbow, their back legs remaining straight, and their tails wagged happily.

The Queen laughed, and the dogs scampered over to her as soon as Malfoy had straightened. She gave them each an affectionate scratch. “It’s so nice to see them reunited with you.” She told Malfoy as he approached. “Your father wanted to keep them confined to the stables during your absence, but I forbade it. They stayed with me instead.”

Malfoy returned her smile, and Harry could see the warmth there, even though he was too buttoned up to demonstrate it further. “You have my gratitude, Your Majesty.”

“It was no trouble,” the Queen demurred, “and my Belle loves them so much.”

As if on cue, the little auburn spaniel came shooting past them to greet the other dogs. Harry turned and saw Gabrielle, the lady Lisette had entrusted her dog to, hurrying down the gallery as fast as her expansive russet robes would allow.

“I’m so sorry, Your Majesty,” she called, “she just jumped out of my lap.”

“Don’t worry,” Lisette replied, “she clearly had great motivation.”

“Perhaps it is just as well she is neutered.” One of the other ladies, Marie or Claudine, Harry didn’t know, observed as they all watched the little dog make quite an exhibition of rolling onto her back in front of the Wolfhounds.

“Don’t be so awful,” admonished the Queen.

Once Belle had had enough of her flirting with the bigger dogs, she got to her feet and greeted Malfoy as a long lost friend. She jumped as far as her diminutive frame would allow up his leg and made pleased little huffs under her breath. Malfoy scooped her up and held her against his chest.

“And how have you been?” He asked her as she pawed at his shoulders and licked his face. “Have you been a good girl for your Mamma?”

Lisette tutted good-naturedly. “She hasn’t done a single thing I’ve asked her since you’ve left. You’ll have to do some more training with her, Draco, I’m sure I can’t make her behave herself.”

“Oh dear,” Malfoy said seriously to the little dog, and she stopped her squirming to look at him with her huge eyes, “that’s very bad, Belle. You must do as you're told.” She regarded him for a moment longer, and then licked him on the nose. He relented and kissed her head.

Looking at Malfoy holding the Cavalier, Harry had to observe that there were no similarities between Belle’s broad head with its smiling mouth and Malfoy’s narrow, serious face. Whatever the reason for the nickname Malfoy had been given, it was not, as Florence had suggested, a physical likeness. Perhaps, as Charlotte had said, it was due to Malfoy’s behaviour, or perhaps it was just cruelty. Harry suspected the latter as he considered Belle’s shining dark eyes and perpetually wagging tail.

“Harry,” Malfoy said, turning to him, and under that grey gaze Harry immediately felt included in the warmth that Belle’s appearance had engendered. “Have you met Belle?”

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” Harry was getting used to Malfoy expecting him to share his enthusiasm for dogs, and he took Belle without complaint when Malfoy held her out to him. The spaniel didn’t appear to mind her change of scenery, and buried her snub nose in Harry’s ear. She was a warm and comfortable weight against Harry’s chest, and her fur was soft as silk. Harry could begin to understand the attraction of a lapdog.

“Where are you off to, Draco?” The Queen asked.

“To play cards, Your Majesty.”

“With whom?”

“With the Chevalier de Maintenon and the Duc d’Enghien.” Malfoy glanced at Harry. “Perhaps I could relieve you of Lord Dorchester, Your Majesty, if you’re finished with him.”

It was an unusual piece of initiative from Malfoy, and the Queen jumped on it. “But of course, you must go.” She assured Harry. “You need to make friends with young men your own age. I will see you both at dinner.”

Lisette held her hands out and Harry handed her Belle. Harry and Malfoy both bowed to the ladies and made their farewells. The Queen continued her slow procession up the gallery, and Malfoy led Harry back the way Harry had come at a much swifter pace.

“Where are we going?” Harry asked as he hurried to keep up.

“My chambers,” Malfoy replied, “they’re in the southern wing.”

“Oh, so where have you come from? The chapel?” 

“No, I was visiting with my mother. Her rooms are in the North Wing.”

“Where we met the Grand Condé?” Harry was still trying to get his head around the geography of the palace.

“Yes, but her rooms are in the attic.” Malfoy’s tone was neutral.

“How is she?” For some reason Harry had the impression that Narcissa Malfoy wasn’t well, but he wasn’t sure where from.

“She dislikes being back in Versailles, she remains in her rooms most of the time.” Malfoy hesitated. “And she is most displeased with me at the moment.”

Harry was taken aback by Malfoy’s admission. It was unusual for the other boy to volunteer personal information. He didn’t want to push his luck, but he had a suspicion of what the cause of the Countess’s ire might be and he felt he should disclose his knowledge. “The Queen’s Maids of Honour mentioned something about a marriage arrangement.”

Malfoy gave Harry a sharp look, but then schooled his face back to its neutral expression. “My father felt it necessary to try to marry me off.”

“You didn’t agree?” Harry asked lightly.

Malfoy smiled reluctantly. “I didn’t.” Then he huffed ruefully. “My brother is the King and he was allowed to choose his own wife. Queen Élizabeth wasn’t necessarily the most advantageous match he could have made, but they fell in love. The stakes of my marriage are much lower, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t enjoy the same luxury.”

Harry looked at Malfoy, and there was an endless, weary sadness in him. He’d been uprooted from his home, suffered under the caprice of court life and the constant threat of Voldemort, and all without complaint, Harry realised. But he wanted this one thing for himself, and for all his detached neutrality, there was a vein of steel at his core. Harry wondered what would happen when his brother and his father finally pushed him too far.

“You should, Draco.” Harry assured him. “You should choose for yourself.”

“Thank you, Harry.” Malfoy said, amused but grateful, and Harry realised that he had used Malfoy’s first name. It was no harm to get used to it.

Malfoy chirruped at his dogs as he led them down a staircase. They had made their way back through the Queen’s chambers and towards the back of the castle. Portraits shuffled on the walls and everything was gold-edged and gleaming. Down the stairs and along a hall, past doors to the right and windows to the left, then Malfoy stopped at one of the doors.

“Home sweet home,” he said as he pushed the door open, and the Wolfhounds bounded ahead of him into the room.

Malfoy’s rooms were smaller than Harry’s. There was a foyer and a room beyond it, and a door off to the right. In the room ahead Harry could see two young men, Harry’s age or a little older, sat at a table and being enthusiastically greeted by Bors and Ajax. They stood when they saw Malfoy and Harry.

“Harry,” Malfoy said, “this is Henri, the Duc d’Enghien.” Malfoy indicated and tall, fair young man in his late teens. 

The Duc smiled at Harry and shook his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“And you.”

“Henri is the eldest son of the Prince de Condé.” Malfoy informed Harry. “And this is Alexandre de Montespan, the youngest son of the Marquis de Montespan.”

The Chevalier de Montespan was tall as well, but more sandy-haired than fair. And he was very good-looking, Harry had to admit. He could understand why Malfoy might show more interest in him than Louise de la Fare, whoever she might be. The Chevalier shook his hand as well and pronounced himself delighted.

“Will you join us for some Whist, Lord Dorchester?” The Duc d’Enghien asked graciously.

Luckily Malfoy had shown Harry a handful of card games in their lessons, and Harry had practiced Whist with him, Flosi and Skarpheðinn. “Of course.” He replied.

They sat down to play, and Harry found himself opposite, and therefore in partnership with, Henri d’Enghien. As Malfoy dealt the first hand, Alexandre de Montespan set up a running chatter that seemed unstoppable. Harry found himself adding in a few comments when he could, as did Malfoy and Enghien. Mostly it was a rundown of the court gossip, which Harry only followed a small amount of. He settled into a contented rhythm of cards and idle conversation, and soon he and the Duc had the requisite five points to win the game.

“You’re not a bad player, Dorchester.” Enghien observed.

“Harry,” Harry corrected for at least the fourth time. The Duc smirked at him.

“I’m going to see about some lunch.” Malfoy announced, and stood.

Enghien frowned. “Call a servant.”

“Leave him.” Montespan admonished mildly.

“Stay.” Said Malfoy, and at first Harry thought he was addressing him, but then Bors whined and shuffled unhappily, and he remembered the dogs.

“So,” Enghien said when Malfoy was gone, “is Draco as miserable at school as he is here?”

Harry considered. “More or less.”

Montespan sighed. “The King should just settle some nice country seat on him, so he doesn’t have to deal with all the drama here.”

“He could establish a household of his own.” Enghien agreed. “Then no one would suspect he has any pretentions to royalty-”

“Which he doesn’t.” The Chevalier interjected.

“Which he doesn’t.” The Duc acknowledged. “You’d go with him, wouldn’t you, Montespan?”

“Not much going for me here.” Montespan stretched languidly. “Not unless Florence de Rohan changes her mind.”

Enghien snorted. “That silly chit? Don’t waste your time on her.” Harry had to agree with that assessment.

“She’s the only woman for me.” Montespan said with a despairing shrug.

The Duc rolled his eyes. “You’re a lost cause.” He turned to Harry. “Will you join us on the hunt tomorrow?”

“I can’t ride.” Harry admitted.

“Then you’ll have to stay here with the ladies.” Enghien smirked again, and Harry realised that he was being teased.

“I won’t hunt tomorrow, my heart is broken.” Montespan lamented.

“Idiot. But anyway, Dorchester, you must play cards with us again whenever you please. Draco spends half his time at confession, it’s so very dull.”

“He’s so well behaved, what does he even have to confess?” Montespan pondered.

“Repressed homosexuality.” Enghien said casually, and Harry couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not.

“But surely that’s no real problem.”

“You would think not, but you must remember, Montespan, Draco may be a Catholic, but his father was a Protestant before he married Madam Malfoy. They’re much more conservative about these things.” Harry had been fairly sure that the Catholic Church was conservative about sexuality too, but he didn’t voice his thoughts.

The door opened, and Malfoy stepped through floating a platter of sandwiches ahead of him. “What are you talking about?” He enquired.

“Whether your father’s handsome ward will be joining us for Christmas.” Montespan lied smoothly.

“Blaise is of age now, he’s spending Christmas with his grandfather.”

The Chevalier shuddered. “I don’t envy him that.”

“No, but since his uncle died he is his grandfather’s only heir. He must play the part.”

“But my sister will be so disappointed.” The Duc complained. “She is so fond of him.”

“And what about your godfather, Draco?” Montespan pressed. “There are some ladies I know who would be delighted to see him again.”

“He’ll be here briefly over Christmas, but he has duties at Hogwarts.”

Great, Harry thought, Snape.


	7. Chapter 7

Dinner was strange for Harry. He was seated next to Malfoy at the end of the table, with the King on Malfoy’s other side, then the Queen, then one of the Queen’s companions, then Lucius Malfoy. Around them various members of the court were arrayed, including Malfoy’s friends and some of the Ladies in Waiting and Maids of Honour Harry had met earlier. The food was excellent, rich and varied, but Harry felt himself too much under scrutiny to really enjoy it. Malfoy was tense beside him, but managed to continue a lively conversation with his brother about some new paintings that Louis had commissioned, and did his best to involve Harry in them as well.

“I’m sure their Serene Highnesses would love to have a small portrait of their first grandchild.” Draco observed. “Particularly if it’s as masterful as Bonnaire’s usual work.”

Harry had no idea who Bonnaire was or what his work was like, but he nodded along sincerely. Their Serene Highnesses, Harry guessed, were Lisette’s parents, the Prince and Princess of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. Maybe a portrait of the Dauphin would make the grandparents happy, Harry didn’t know.

He was glad when it was over, and the company had retired to the Salons to drink, play billiards and dance. Draco didn’t do any of those things, he sat in a corner and put the Queen’s little dog on his lap, and Bors lay on his feet and Ajax put his huge fawn head next to Belle and sat with his eyes closed. Enghein and Montespan sat next to him and Harry joined them.

“Tomorrow is an important day,” Enghein observed, “the Christmas Eve hunt and the ballet, you’ll join us for that, at least, won’t you, Dorchester? Sorry, Harry.” Another of his smirks.

“Er, I suppose.” Harry replied uncertainly.

“Have you ever seen Swan Lake?” Draco asked.

Harry had never seen any ballet. “No.”

Draco leaned in conspiratorially, “it’s my favourite.” He smiled at Harry and Harry decided he liked this side of Draco, more relaxed than he had seen him recently, surrounded by friends and dogs.

Montespan laughed. “Of course it’s your favourite, it’s just as miserable as you are.”

Draco gasped in mock affront. “I am not miserable.”

“You’re so miserable,” Enghein joined in.

Malfoy huffed. “Anyway, Swan Lake is the story of a princess called Odette who is cursed by a wizard to be a swan in the day and only a human at night. She lives on a lake with other cursed girls. A prince called Siegfried falls in love with her, which is good because the only way for the curse to be broken is if she is loved by someone who has never loved before. The prince vows to kill the wizard and free Odette, but then at a royal ball, the wizard’s daughter comes to him disguised as Odette and Siegfried proclaims his love for her. When the wizard reveals Siegfried’s mistake, Siegfried runs to the lake and begs Odette’s forgiveness, but his mistake has doomed Odette to life as a swan. Unable to live without Odette, Siegfried joins her in committing suicide by jumping into the lake. The final scene is usually them ascending to heaven.”

Harry frowned. “You’re right,” he said to Montespan, “that is miserable.”

“It’s a tragedy,” Draco said defensively.

“Isn’t The Nutcracker more usual for Christmas Eve?” Enghein asked.

“Yes,” Draco replied, “but the Queen isn’t fond of the giant rats, so we’re having Swan Lake instead, and Sleeping Beauty on Boxing Day.”

Harry half wondered if they were speaking in some sort of code.

“And after the ballet,” Engheim continued, “the Feast. Now that I am looking forward to.”

Harry knew, because Draco had told him, that the French had their main Christmas meal on Christmas Eve, and also opened their presents that evening. It was an odd concept to Harry, because the main events of Christmas Day had always been the food and the presents for him, and Harry wondered what actually happened on Christmas day if those had already been done.

“I think the King will want to speak to you tomorrow,” Draco told Harry in an undertone as the other two launched into a discussion of tomorrow’s food.

Harry straightened. “Really, already?”

Draco leaned forward towards Harry under guise of putting Belle in his lap. “Time is of the essence, the Dark Lord’s power grows in Britain and if His Majesty is going to move against him it must be soon. He wishes to hear your case so that he can make a quick decision.”

Belle settled into Harry’s lap without complaint and Harry laid a tentative hand on her warm flank. He wasn’t entirely comfortable with the fragile little thing in his hands, but his mind was on Draco’s words. “Do you think I can persuade him?”

Draco gave his one-shouldered shrug. “You’ve already won over the Queen, with her on your side it hopefully it won’t be too hard to convince the King.”

 

Snape arrived the next day. Harry had been awakened by a soft thump-scratch at his door, and once he had thrown a robe over his pyjamas and opened the door, he had found Bors standing there, waiting patiently. “Er, give me a second.” He had told the dog, feeling a bit stupid. He had put his clothes on and followed the dog along corridors and down stairs until he was once again at Draco’s door. 

Bors nosed it open and trotted in confidently, Harry followed with slightly less surety. Draco was sitting at the table they had played cards at the previous day, and before him was spread an array of food. He gave Harry one of his shy half-smiles and Harry felt his insides warming and tightening. He swallowed and proceeded further into the room.

“Would you like some breakfast?” Draco asked.

Harry’s stomach was too knotted for him to feel particularly hungry, but he nodded anyway and sat down opposite Draco.

“Tea?” Draco asked, “It’s Darjeeling.”

“Er, sure?” Harry was starting accept his constant state of mild bemusement. Draco poured an amber stream into a delicate china teacup and placed it on a saucer in front of Harry. “Thanks.”

“Have you thought more about what you will say to the King?”

Harry sighed. “ All I can do is tell him what’s going on, and let him make his choice.”

Draco leant forward and fixed Harry with his disconcerting blank gaze. “It’s of utmost importance that the King take your side, the Ministry is doing nothing to fight the Dark Lord. The King’s support, both politically and militarily, is your best chance of destroying him.” Harry hadn’t heard Draco talk so openly about the purpose of Harry’s visit before.

“I’ll… I’ll do my best.” Harry replied, unnerved by Draco’s stare.

Draco stood. “Good. I’m going on the hunt today, the boys love to stretch their legs.” On cue Bors and Ajax loped to the door. “Alexandre will keep you company, perhaps show you the grounds once you’ve finished breakfast. Stay with him until you’re summoned by the King.” With that he left, leaving Harry to ponder the not particularly enticing prospect of a morning spent with the Chevalier de Montespan.

 

Harry was saved from spending the entire morning with the Chevalier, but not by a more favourable fate. Snape came across them taking a stroll in the Orangery. He cut through the Chevalier’s prattle about Florence de Rohan, the beauteous maid who had so cruelly jilted him, with a single utterance of Harry’s title.

“Lord Dorchester,” he called.

Harry turned, and was unsure whether he felt relieved or not when he saw his saviour. “Professor Snape,” he replied, “how are you?”

Snape treated Harry to his characteristic sardonic sneer. “Quite well, thank you.” He looked at Montespan. “If you’ll excuse us, Alexandre, I need to speak with the Marquess.”

It took Harry a moment to remember that that meant him. He had almost got used to being called Dorchester, though he preferred Harry, but really his title was still unfamiliar to him.

Montespan looked a little disgruntled. “You won’t walk with us, sir?”

Snape gave him a slightly fonder look than that with which he had favoured Harry. “And hear about your most recent heartbreak? Another time.”

“How did you know?” Monstespan asked.

Snape placed a hand on his shoulder. “O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, so haggard and so woebegone?” He gave Montespan a little shake. “Fear not, child, you’ll find your beautiful maiden.” Then his face returned to its habitual sneer. “So do pull yourself together.”

“I can but hope,” Montespan glanced up at Snape, “and pray, of course.” He added quickly.

Snape snorted. “Yes, you’re well known for your piety. Go now.” He instructed. Monstespan went, and Snape called after him, “Perhaps to the chapel.”

He turned to Harry, and gestured that he continue walking down the path. “I trust you haven’t been too bored by the Chevalier.” Snape said, some of his good humour from his discussion with Montespan seeming to remain.

“Er, no,” Harry replied, “he wasn’t too bad.”

“He’s a romantic,” Snape said dismissively. “I need to talk to you about your interview with the King this afternoon.”

“You and everyone else,” Harry muttered.

Snape fixed him with a glare. “You’re not here to drink fine wine and make friends, Potter. This is the sole purpose of your visit.” And Harry could only find himself relieved to hear himself called by his name again.

“No, I know. I just don’t understand what the fuss is about. I’ll make my case, and the King will make his decision. What’s all this need for discussion?”

Snape looked at Harry as though he were a particularly hideous fish that had just flopped out of the pool they were circumnavigating onto the path at his feet. “Have you learnt nothing? You are about to try to persuade the King of France that he should invest his own money and men in a war on foreign soil. One he does not yet believe concerns him. One that would be a political minefield. That will take more than an honest face and a good story.”

Harry quailed a little under the force of Snape’s gaze. “What should I do then? I don’t have a silver tongue like Draco.”

Snape looked away, but couldn’t hide his half-smile at the mention of his godson. “I’ll accompany you, the King will allow it.”

“Do you think that’ll help?”

“Of course it will help.” Snape looked severe again. “But you must also bear certain things in mind. The King does not like flattery, so don’t waste your breath commending his virtues. He is not a particularly religious man, so don’t speak to him of God’s will. Don’t tell him about the Dark Lord’s evil, or all the innocents in danger. Tell him only of his own gain, the safety of his people, the renown he will win if he delivers England safely. That is the only way to win him.”

Harry frowned, Draco’s brother didn’t exactly sound like someone Harry wanted to turn to for help. He knew he was idealistic, but he preferred his allies to share his desire to help others and challenge evil for its own sake.

Snape seemed to read Harry’s thoughts. “He’s not perfect, Potter, but he’s all we’ve got.”

“Severus!” A voice called from behind them.

Draco was running up the path behind them. He held his robes in his hands to keep them away from his feet, making him look almost like a child as he ran. Behind him his two wolfhounds trotted calmly through the Orangery.

When Draco reached them, a little out of breath, his usually drawn face was open and happy. For once he looked his age, the excursions of the morning and now his pleasure at seeing his godfather had washed away some of his tension. Harry couldn’t help but admire him, shining like the moon in the pale winter sun.

“Bors and Ajax brought down a buck.” He announced proudly.

Snape’s lips twitched. “And did the King shoot something?”

Draco nodded. “At least one doe.”

“Then hopefully he’ll be in a good mood.”

“Yes,” Draco agreed, “hopefully. That’s why I'm here, actually. He wants to see you now, Harry.”

Harry swallowed.

“I’m coming,” Snape informed Draco. “I have yet to see his Majesty.”

“He’ll be happy to see you, I’m sure.”

Draco led them back up the path to the palace. They entered through a small door in the central building, and then made their way up a sweeping staircase. The King was waiting for them in the Hall of Mirrors.

They all stopped at a distance and bowed. He waved them forward.

“Severus,” the young monarch said, “we have missed you.” Then he embraced his godfather.

Snape didn’t exactly return the grip. He stood stiffly and placed a hand on King Louis’ arm. “It’s good to see you, your Majesty.” He replied. “I trust you enjoyed the hunt.”

“Very much. We must have brought down at least five deer. I think we shall have them for a New Year’s feast. Are you well.”

“Quite, Sire.”

The King turned his gaze to Harry. Harry began to mentally rehearse what he wanted to say in his head.

“I’m sure you know why I have asked to see you, Lord Dorchester.”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

But all of Harry’s mental preparation, and all the coaching Draco and Snape had given him, were to be for nothing. “Well, there’s no point drawing this out. I want you to know that I’ve already made my decision. We can't justify a costly and violent campaign in a foreign country. I’m going to have let Britain resolve it themselves.”


	8. Chapter 8

Draco stormed into his room, Harry and Snape following closely enough to see the door smack into wall with enough force to damage the plaster. Harry hadn’t seen such a display of emotion from the other boy in quite some time.

“This is him, I know it,” Draco hissed, “whispering in the King’s ear.”

“Who?” Harry asked.

Draco didn’t answer, he simply stood at the window, glaring into the grounds.

To Harry’s surprise, Snape answered instead. “Lucius has not hidden his opinion that France should not involve itself with the war against the Dark Lord. The King takes his stepfather’s opinions seriously.”

Harry frowned. Why wouldn’t Lucius Malfoy want Voldemort to be defeated? Even if he had loyally supported him the first time round, he had fled this time and would surely be in danger if his former master came to power.

“He’s a fool if he thinks the Dark Lord will leave us alone.” Draco muttered darkly, echoing Harry’s thoughts.

Snape sighed and sat at Draco’s table. “Your father isn’t a fool, Draco. But he may be misguided. He wants peace, and an easy life. And he wants the King to consolidate his power here before he embarks on any foreign adventures.”

“The King won’t have any power here if the Dark Lord kills us all.” Draco snapped.

“Calm down.” Snape told him firmly.

Draco took a breath and stepped over to a cabinet in the corner. “I am calm.” He opened the cabinet and took three glasses out, placing them on the gilt top of the cupboard and unstopping a decanter of amber liquid.

“It’s a little early, Draco.” Snape admonished.

“It’s Christmas Eve, we should be enjoying ourselves, no?” He sounded a little unsteady. “Whiskey, Potter?”

“Er,” Harry hesitated, not wanting to upset Draco further. “Sure, thanks.”

Draco poured the three glasses and brought them over to the table. Harry sat next to him. He watched Snape, opposite, take what Harry would characterise as a large mouthful of his whiskey in spite of his protestations. Harry glared into his whiskey, unsure of how he felt. He knew he had lost something in the last few minutes, lost his chance at support from one of the most powerful people in Europe, but he didn’t feel the blow as heavily as he thought he might. In a sense, he had lost what he had never had. He was in no worse a position than he had been in five minutes ago, but also no better.

“So,” Harry broke the silence. “What now?”

Draco rubbed a hand over his face. The exhaustion that had haunted him for the last few months seemed suddenly palpable. “His Majesty is not quick to change his mind. I don’t know how much we can do immediately.”

“We haven’t much time,” Snape countered. “The Dark Lord is well on his way to infiltrating every facet of the Ministry, and he is already starting to turn his eye to France. When he called me to him last it was to ask whether the King might submit to his cause.”

Harry leant forward, the only time he had heard Snape talk about his role as a spy was during Order meetings and he was rarely so open.

“Is that likely?” Harry asked. Louis hadn’t seemed like the type to want to exterminate all muggles and muggleborns, but he might be self-centred enough to acquiesce to Voldemort’s demands to keep his life comfortable.

“My brother believes his right to rule comes from God. As do we all.” Draco touched his crucifix, caressed it. “He took the fact that his father’s second wife was barren and he became king against all expectations as confirmation of this. He will not bow to another.”

“Then I don’t understand the problem,” Harry replied. “War will come to him whether he looks for it or not. If we explain that to him, surely he’ll see that it’s better to fight on his terms rather than Voldemort’s.”

“I’ve already told his Majesty about the Dark Lord’s intentions.” Snape pursed his lips. “I wrote him directly after my meeting with the Dark Lord. It seems he did not take me seriously, he does not understand the extent of the Dark Lord’s lust for power.”

“Alright,” Harry accepted. Then a thought diverted him. “Why do you still call him the Dark Lord if you're not on his side?” He asked Snape.

Snape gave him his customary look of distain. “Because if I call him otherwise in front of the wrong person I’ll be crucioed until I bleed from my eye sockets, Potter. It’s not a habit I want to get into.”

Understandable, Harry thought.

“Thanks for that image.” Draco sniffed. “To return to the matter at hand, it seems we are at an impasse.”

Snape shrugged, “We’ll simply have to keep trying. If we continue to appeal to his Majesty, perhaps he’ll see reason.”

“I know the Queen supports us.” Draco agreed. “Perhaps her voice in the end will outweigh my father’s.”

Snape looked between Harry and Draco. “The most important thing is that neither of you appear at all displeased with the King. He doesn’t take well to being questioned or second-guessed.”

Draco scowled. “I know how to deal with him, Severus, I’ve been doing it all my life.”

“I know,” Snape replied in a remarkably soothing tone. “But now would not be a good time to forget, particularly for you, Draco. You know how he is with you. Anything you want badly enough he takes from you.”

Harry was slightly shocked. He had guessed from the signs and innuendo around the court, and from Draco himself, that the relationship between the brothers was a difficult one, but he hadn’t heard it so baldly stated.

Draco merely smiled. “What else are brothers for?”

 

The ballet was a beautiful spectacle. They were, as Draco had warned him was a possibility, outside. In a grove that Draco had called the Ballroom, a stage had been erected against the backdrop of an artificial waterfall in the guise of a stone amphitheatre. A lavish throne had been laid out in the centre, with a stool for the Queen to its side. There were rows of stools arrayed in two wings at a small distance on either side of the throne. No one could sit in a chair with arms but the King, Draco had told him during one of his lessons. On the stage the woman dancing as Odette was beautiful, and her dance with her swans was captivating, but Harry was more entranced by Draco’s reactions next to him. He leant forward, rapt, when Siegfried and Odette met, and tensed at the appearance of the wizard. Harry didn’t find the dancing particularly helpful in following the plot, and had to rely on his memory of Draco’s summary the day before. The music was beautiful though, and vaguely familiar. Harry supposed he must have heard the music to one of the world’s most famous ballets before, even if he hadn’t realised it. It was enjoyable, even though he wasn’t as enthralled by it as Draco clearly was. A way to Harry’s right, the King and Queen sat, and to Harry the King looked like a smug cat, satisfied with having his court arrayed around him for his pleasure. He had inclined his head benevolently when the dancers had come out on stage at the beginning of the ballet to make the obeisance, and now he sat with his wife’s hand in his own and observed languidly.

At the end of the first half there was time for drinks and mingling. Harry stuck close to Draco, and they were joined by Draco’s friends, Enghien and Maintenon, and by some of the Queen’s Maids. It turned Harry’s stomach to see Charlotte and Florence, who had spoken so cruelly about Draco before, fawn over him and call him Monsieur as though they hadn’t previously used it as an insult. Harry was also introduced to some new people, but they made little impression on him. He knew he should be paying more attention, Draco had drilled into him during his lessons that it was important to know people and recognise them so that he could woo and sweet talk them, but he didn’t really see the point now. The King had made his decision, and he didn’t look about to change it.

After the ballet had finished they went for dinner in the Orangery building. It ran at a right angle to the palace at a single storey, and was made from the same cream stone with arching windows and a high ceiling. It was beautiful, and the smell of oranges perfumed the air from the trees that had been brought in for the winter. This time Harry didn’t have a seat, he stood with the Chevalier and watched as Draco and his family ate. It was a surreal experience, this en masse observation of the royal family. Draco looked blank, his face as much of a mask as Harry had ever seen it, though he kept conversation with his brother and his godfather on either side of him. Harry felt for him, and admired the self-control Draco had in managing restore his façade after his earlier anger. The rest of the courtiers were served snacks and refreshments on trays that floated between them. It was delicious, and plentiful, but eating standing up was awkward and Harry hoped he wouldn’t have to make a habit of it. Once dinner was over, Harry was whisked off into the gardens where there was dancing and drinking. Draco even seemed to manage to enjoy himself. He laughed as Maintenon released a snitch and he dashed through the trees with his wolfhounds at his heels, his navy and silver robes flying around him. Harry couldn’t help but smile as he watched Draco jumping for the snitch and his dogs twisted around him in the snow.

 

Harry had stayed in the gardens until people had begun to leave for bed in the early hours, more to observe the Christmas Eve festivities than with any wish to partake in them. He had barely managed to drift to sleep when a tremor ran through the walls and ceiling that shook him to the bone. He shot to his feet as the palace continued shaking. It was a feeling familiar to Harry from the assault on Hogwarts. Versailles was under attack.

He ran from his room and out into the hallway. There were others leaving their rooms and wandering into the corridor in confusion. Harry followed the general flow of people towards the Hall of Mirrors. It was strange to see the extravagant gallery filled with people in their nightclothes. There were guards in red robes and plumed hats mingling with frightened looking nobles. Harry quickly singled out Snape as one of the few dressed and not looking like a terrified rabbit, and made his way over to him.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked Snape, although he already had some idea.

Snape shook his head. “The wards are under attack, but I don’t understand, they could never hope to get through. The wards here are stronger than those at Hogwarts.”

“Then why are they bothering?” Harry asked, more to himself than Snape, as he was aware it wasn’t exactly the brightest question. Then a thought occurred and glanced up quickly to meet Snape’s eyes, where he saw it mirrored. “It’s a distraction.”

“But from what?” Snape murmured, clearly unwilling to further spook those milling around him. “An infiltration of some kind?”

“They can’t hope to get to the King,” Harry motioned at a nearby guard, “not with all this security.”

“Even if they have someone to get them inside.” Snape agreed.

Harry heard a commotion across the hall. Louis was there, his white nightgown covered with an ornate golden robe.

“Where is my brother?” The King demanded. “Where is he? Bring me my brother!”

Cold horror flooded Harry. Draco. He exchanged another, more loaded, glance with Snape. They were both running before Harry had made a conscious choice.

Down stairs, along a corridor, round a corner, and they were in front of Draco’s door.

“Monsieur,” the guard who had accompanied them pounded on his door, “Monsieur, open the door, please.” He kept pounding, but there was no response.

“Stand back,” Snape ordered, drawing his wand.

The King hurried up behind them as Snape blasted the lock on the door. He asked, “What’s happening?” But no one answered him.

Harry entered behind Snape and stopped dead at the scene before him. The rooms were in ruin, the bed linen in disarray, the table overturned, broken china and glass covered the floor. On the floor beside the bed was a prone figure, Bors and Ajax standing over it, and Harry hurried over, but it wasn’t Draco.

The dark-haired man on the floor was wearing black robes and was covered in blood. It seemed to be his own, as it was clear that one or both of the dogs had attacked him and his throat was all but ripped out. Snape approached the man and crouched over him.

“Where’s the Duc d’Orleans?” He asked, his voice icy calm. “Tell me, and I’ll heal you.”

The man smiled through a mouthful of blood. “He’s far beyond you now.” He jeered, and Harry could see the madness in his eyes. “But you can get him back, your Majesty.” He addressed Louis, who was standing over Harry’s shoulder. “All you have to do is swear an oath to the Dark Lord, and he’ll give you your brother back. Accept him as your lord and you will see your brother again.”

“Never,” Louis snarled, “I am the King, and the only lord I know is God himself.”

The Death Eater laughed himself to death.

There was silence in the room for many moments as they all took in the horror of the situation. Draco gone, taken by what could only be Death Eaters, and no way to find him without acceding to Voldemort’s demands. Bors and Ajax put their bloody muzzles on Malfoy’s empty bed, and snuffled dolefully at the mussed sheets. Then Ajax set up a whining, crying howl, and Bors joined him until Snape called them both to heel, and told them I know, but quiet now, that’s enough like they were people, and cleaned their muzzles with a spell.

 

“How did this happen?” The King railed.

Harry had followed Snape and Louis to a room that he assumed was the council room, a long room on the ground floor that overlooked the dark grounds. Lucius Malfoy had joined them, along with a few other men Harry knew to be Louis’ ministers. The King stood at the head of the table, his back to the window, and planted his hands on the table in fury.

“They appear to have been let into the palace by an unknown helper, Sire.” A guard, more elaborately attired than the rest, informed them.

“And how did they escape with my brother.”

“By portkey, I imagine.” Snape said. “It is permitted for courtiers to create their own portkeys to leave, is it not?”

The King banged a fist on the table. “And why would one of our own court turn against us? Never could I have conceived of such a betrayal.”

Because of your own arrogance, Harry thought.

“Who can tell why, your Majesty.” Snape said. “For greed or for ideology. Whatever the cause, the culprit is out of our reach. We must now consider the Dark Lord.”

“Why has he done this? To take our brother with no thought of negotiation first.”

“To trap you, Sire.” Malfoy stated baldly. “He hopes to strike a decisive blow before you can think to resist him.”

“You must make a choice, Sire,” Snape’s voice was calm. “To fight the Dark Lord or to acquiesce to his terms.”

“Let’s not be too hasty.” Malfoy interjected. “There’s no need to make any decisions yet. We are well protected here, the Dark Lord would be impossibly foolish to attempt a fully-fledged attack on your soil, Sire.”

“You suggest we simply continue as usual?” Snape sounded incredulous. “They have your son.”

“And they want to use him to draw us out. For all we know he’s already dead.” Malfoy countered.

Louis sunk into a seat. “We do have to accept that possibility.” He said pensively.

Snape stared at the King. “Do you intend to abandon him, your Majesty?”

“The King simply doesn’t want to risk more lives on a foolish undertaking.” Malfoy snapped.

“You don’t seem particularly concerned about Draco, Lucius, given that he’s your son.” Snape squared off against Malfoy, his stance aggressive.

Malfoy met it. “You seem overly concerned, given that he isn’t yours.”

Snape’s gaze was unwavering. “Maybe that’s because I raised him.”

The two men glared at one another, Malfoy pale, broad and chiselled, Snape dark, tall and wiry. It was Malfoy who looked away first.

“I doubt,” Harry interjected, nerves twisting his stomach at joining this heated debate, “that his Majesty wishes to be remembered as the king who abandoned his own brother.” Harry remembered what Draco and Snape had told him about the King’s ego, about his temper and his lack of compassion. Perhaps this was the only way to get him to see sense.

Malfoy threw him a furious look. “Sire, is it really appropriate to have the Potter boy here at this juncture?”

Louis didn’t pay his stepfather any heed. “It only seems fitting that he stays, given that it was Draco who requested he came here. And I want to hear what Lord Dorchester has to say. After all, he knows the Dark Lord best. What would you suggest, Dorchester?”

Draco had asked him here? Harry had thought it was the King’s own curiosity behind the invitation. He swallowed. He didn’t like the answer he was going to give, so he didn’t see why the King would. “Well, in my opinion, Sire, there’s no point in accepting Voldemort’s terms. He won’t keep his word, he likes to play games.” Harry had found that out the previous year, to his cost. “If you agree to form an alliance with him, he’ll probably kill Draco just to spite you.”

“You’re suggesting war.” Louis said, with the most level tone Harry had heard from him that evening.

“I think that if you want Draco back, your only chance is to defeat Voldemort.”

Whatever response the King was going to make was cut off by a flash of light in the centre of the table. They all jumped back, startled.

“What the hell was that?” Malfoy barked.

Harry peered at the table where the flash had been. It was no longer empty. “Oh God.” Harry felt sick.

It was a finger. A human finger, the fourth, Harry guessed, and at its base was a ring.

“That’s Draco’s signet ring.” Snape said.

“How on earth did that get here?” Malfoy demanded.

“Who cares?” Hissed Snape. “They sent us his finger.”

The King looked pale, shaken. He met Harry’s gaze across the table. “We go to war.”


	9. Chapter 9

Snape seemed to inherit Bors and Ajax, because they were at Hogwarts when Harry returned, with the run of the dungeons, teaching Fang to catch rabbits. Or perhaps they belonged to Zabini, now, because the flanked him like a canine Crabbe and Goyle when he confronted Harry.

“This is your fault,” he told Harry, somewhat unfairly to Harry’s mind, and the dogs snarled.

But Harry wasn’t scared of any of them, because Zabini’s voice cracked halfway through and the dogs’ tails were low between their legs. All three of them warmed to Harry after that, and Zabini showed him a ritual that would cause an alarm to sound if a Death Eater crossed the line of a circle. They cast it together around the castle, yet another line of defence.

Or perhaps the dogs were Harry’s, because they joined him at Grimauld Place for the summer and stayed when he didn’t return to Hogwarts the next year. Fighting Voldemort was a full time job, now, as was teaching the wolfhounds not to kill everything that moved in the little garden. He also seemed to have inherited Crabbe and Goyle, who move into Grimauld place as well and provided mostly silent company for Harry as he made it his business to hunt down and capture every Death Eater he could get his hands on. He let them do the interrogating, mostly, because they seemed to be very good at it. And where did you say Voldemort was? And what are his plans? And have you seen Draco Malfoy? But that last question was always answered by a negative, and then screams.

Grimauld Place quickly became crowded. All of Draco’s cousins came: Flosi, Skarpheðinn, Ragnar, Gunnar, Grettir and Erik. Harry was somewhat relieved to have them with him. Flosi and Skarpheðinn were a welcome reminder of his time with Draco, and he knew that all of the Bjarnassons were as desperate to have Draco home safely as he was. They were ruthless fighters in the raids and few pitched battles the Order had had with the Death Eaters. Their father, Björn, came with them, as did their mother. Eleanor was something of a revelation to Harry. She was the image of Draco. Suddenly he could see where Draco got his delicate bone structure, his huge eyes, his mournfully downturned mouth. Where Lucius was broad and commanding, and Narcissa was pinched and haughty, Eleanor was warm and slight and controlled her unruly flock with soft words and poise. 

Enghien and the Chevalier de Maintenon also joined him at Grimauld Place, and Enghien in particular impressed Harry at the ferocity with which the previously laconic courtier approached war. He was in charge of liaising between the Order and the French troops Louis had sent over. They were garrisoned secretly across England, in Hogwarts and Hogsmeade, with the Weasleys in Ottery St Catchpole, with families in Godric’s Hollow and Diagon Alley, to name just a few. The Ministry was quickly falling to Voldemort, and it had been decided by Harry, Dumbledore and Louis that they could not be trusted with the location of the soldiers. Instead, the aurors who had chosen to jump ship from the crumbling Ministry, which was most of them, had been absorbed into the Order and mixed with the French garrisons. The Death Eaters’ numbers had swollen as well in response to the open conflict, with many joining due to either belief or ambition. In all the two sides were about evenly matched, and the fighting was bitter.

The end finally came on a rainy afternoon in May. The Order’s raids on the Death Eaters had been increasing in their frequency and ferocity, and Harry had put every available resource into pumping the Death Eaters they captured for any information about Voldemort or Draco. The former had been much more plentiful than the latter, and Harry had found all he needed to know to destroy a large part of Voldemort’s troops and draw him out into the open. As it transpired, the Death Eaters were far less efficient than the Order at gathering information, because they had a marked preference for killing rather than taking prisoners, and so they never had the level of intelligence the Order did. Harry’s decision was made when they captured Rudolphus LeStrange, who told them, under interrogation, that he had been involved in the original plan to kidnap Draco, but Draco had disappeared months ago. Harry knew then that Draco was either dead or not in Death Eater hands, and there was no point delaying their final action against the Dark Lord.

The Order took Voldemort by surprise at his stronghold deep in the heart of the Ministry. Harry let the others deal with his minions. While Crabbe and Goyle and Draco’s cousins took care of the Death Eaters that blocked the way, Harry strode through the tumult and into the room in which the Dark Lord was holding court. There were a few more Death Eaters here, of course, and Harry soon found himself battling the shield they had formed in front of Voldemort. Harry was not alone, either. He had Snape beside him, and Flosi and Enghein had overcome their adversaries in the corridor to join Harry. Battered and bleeding, the four of them managed to remove the final barrier to Voldemort. He was less than Harry remembered him from when they had last met almost two years earlier. Then he had seemed all-powerful, terrifying and invulnerable. Now Harry saw him for what he was, a twisted man whose skill in the Dark Arts and manipulating others had not been enough to defeat the forces allied against him. His presence still filled the room, brooding and malevolent, and he felt Enghein falter beside him, but it no longer had any effect on Harry.

The Dark Lord levelled his wand at Harry, and Harry matched him.

“It’s over.” Harry informed him.

“It will never be over.” Voldemort hissed. “I will kill everyone you love, Potter. I –”

“Aveda Kedavera.” Harry pronounced calmly.

Voldemort crumpled. Harry had discussed this with his little entourage. Voldemort ruled through theatrics and creating fear, so they had decided that quick action would catch him off guard. They knew that with his forces destroyed, the Dark Lord’s instinct would be to try to control the situation with rhetoric and posturing, intimidate those he couldn’t hope to beat by force. Harry had never intended to give him the chance.

 

Harry eased his horse back from a canter into a trot, the cool shade of the forest giving way to the summer heat as he rode through the open fields that surrounded his home. The purchase of this estate had been one of his first actions after the war. England had become claustrophobic, the Ministry needed rebuilding from the ground up and Harry didn’t have the stomach for it. There was also a certain faction that wanted to infantilise him, treat him as a school child rather than a man who had just orchestrated the defeat of the most powerful dark wizard of the age. Harry didn’t want to be somewhere where important conversations ended as he entered the room, where people told him not to concern himself with matters of consequence. The decision to move to France had been easy. Louis welcomed him warmly into both the court and his confidences, and Harry no longer felt the need to constantly look over his shoulder.

As Harry directed his mare around the side of the house to the stables, he saw a figure in black robes leaning against the stable door. Harry was still not a notably good rider, and Esther was his only horse, a calm lady in middle age who put up with his poor posture and was happy to indulge his morning canters through the woods. Nonetheless he was capable of dismounting without incident and passing Esther’s reins to his only stable hand. 

“Merci, Claude.”

Claude disappeared with Esther into the stables and Harry turned to his visitor.

“Hello, Severus, what can I do for you today?”

His relationship with Snape had improved from his school days, what with their having fought a war together and their joint concern for Draco, but the man still preferred limited small talk.

“His Majesty has requested your presence at the palace.” Snape told him, his face betraying nothing.

“And he sent you instead of an owl.” Harry observed.

“Evidently.”

“It’s about Draco, then.”

“I know no more than you.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair; he could feel nerves and excitement building in him, but he didn’t want to raise his hopes, or Severus’s, unnecessarily.

“Well we better get there, then.”

Snape held out a portkey rod, identical to the one Draco had used the first time Harry had visited Versailles. Even though it had been eighteen months since he had seen Draco, those memories were still as fresh as ever. Harry had the feeling that Louis would be none too pleased at Harry turning up in his riding clothes, but there was no way he was going to take the time to change.

The portkey relocated them from Harry’s stables to the King’s, and Harry made the now familiar trek along the colonnade and through the enchanted door into the palace. In the Gallery of Illustrious Men they were greeted by an agitated Condé.

“You must attend his Majesty immediately.” Condé informed them.

“Indeed,” said Snape irritably, “might you tell us where?”

“His Council Cabinet,” Condé replied, “he is in a state of great agitation.”

“Well that makes me feel better.” Harry muttered.

Snape shot him a piercing glance. “Quickly.” He muttered, and brushed past Condé.

They hurried along the gallery, past the chapel and into the Salon of Hercules, where Harry had first met the King. From there, there was a seemingly endless succession of Salons, each as richly decorated with paintings and marble as the last. Finally they left the War Salon and entered the Hall of Mirrors. Lisette was standing in the Hall in front of the entrance to the Council Cabinet with Belle in her arms.

“Thank God you are here,” she exclaimed, “he won’t tell me anything, he just keeps asking for you.”

Harry wasn’t sure whether by ‘you’ she meant him, Severus, or them both, so he just nodded tensely.

“We should go in.” Snape muttered, but he still hesitated in front of the door. Louis’ temper had grown no better since Harry had first met him, and if the news was bad instead of good there was no saying what was waiting for them behind the door.

Harry took a deep breath and pushed the door open. He had been in this room before, and was familiar with its white and gold opulence. Louis sat at the head of the large table, and Lucius Malfoy was sitting to his left. Malfoy had a laconic air about him, as though he and his stepson had been discussing arrangements for the next ball, but Harry could easily read the tension in the King.

“Finally you're here.” Louis exclaimed. Harry opened his mouth to give a platitude, but Louis sailed onwards. “We’ve had news of great import. A man who is known to the Court and well trusted came to us this morning with an astonishing claim.” Harry cursed Louis’ theatrical tendencies internally. “He said that he had seen our brother with his own eyes.”

Harry sank into the nearest seat the table. Behind him Lisette covered her mouth with her hand.

“Where, your Majesty?” Severus asked, more composed than Harry.

“In Prague, in the Church of Our Lady of the Snows. It appears he is a guest of the Franciscans there.”

Malfoy snorted, and Snape gave him a filthy look. There was no love lost between the two men these days.

“Is there any suggestion that your informant is correct in his identification of this person as Draco, Sire?” Snape was ever pragmatic, and Harry knew he wouldn’t allow his hopes to be raised easily.

“Our friend told us that, as well as resembling our brother, the boy is missing a ring finger.” This King looked around the room as though ensuring he had full attention, and Harry knew he was working his way up to a finale. “He also brought this, he claims he took it from Draco.”

Harry did not immediately recognise the object Louis deposited onto the table, or at least he didn’t understand its significance. It was a Rosary made of dark, gleaming wood. There was a resounding silence for several moments.

“That is yours, isn’t it Severus?” Malfoy asked smugly.

Snape’s face was very still. “It is. And I gave it to Draco.” When Hogwarts was attacked, Harry remembered in a rush, and Snape must have never taken it back.

“Then it’s certain,” Louis said, pleased. “Our brother is in Prague.” It was the news he had been waiting for, but now that Harry had finally heard it he felt largely numb. Louis levelled his gaze at Harry. “You will retrieve him for us.”


End file.
